Moving On
by ultraviolet128
Summary: Poor Holmes has been left without his Watson, but will a new case from an engaging young female client be enough to lift him from his black moods? SH/OC
1. Chapter 1 An Introduction

**DISCLAIMER: Believe it or not, I don't own Holmes or Watson (luckily for Watson)**

**This is my first EVER fanfic so please be reasonably nice – rated M for (later) violence and Holmes/OC. Enjoy!**

_**Holmes**_

It had been two years since Watson had… gone.

Strange, how much you taken some things for granted, until they are taken away. I had often wondered how he had felt for those years after the Reichenbach incident. Somehow it seemed morbid to ask him, especially as during that time he had suffered not only the loss of his best (I hope I should not be presumptuous in that reasoning) friend but also that of his wife, to whom he was quite devoted. Having had such limited experience of those emotions at the time, I was curious.

But now, of course, I have tasted grief for myself, and am profoundly glad I did not question him.

It was a cold November day when a policeman arrived at 221B. At first I presumed (erroneously) that he had come to request some help with a case. Which proves once more that it is a capital mistake to theorise without all the evidence, as I had told Watson on numerous occasions.

Watson had been out on his normal evening stroll and a hansom cab driver had lost control of his horse, which had reared up and struck my friend a glancing blow on the head. Despite the prompt attention of a medical expert on the scene, he had never regained consciousness. I had been to see him, almost childishly disbelieving Lestrade's reports. And so I had looked down on the body of my old friend (indeed, my only friend), his forehead roughly swathed in bloodstained cloth, his eyes gently closed, just as if he were sleeping. But there was none of that life, that companionship that had meant so much to me. Foolishly, I had almost expected him to be smiling, or at least showing me some kind of sign, telling me that I could go on. But, of course, there was nothing.

It was so shockingly sudden that for a long time I felt absolutely nothing. Watson had once remarked that there was something "positively inhuman" in me, and indeed for several months I believed that his comment had been true. I felt numb. Every day I expected to see him sitting by the breakfast table when I came down in the morning and once, upon waking in a disorientated state very early in the morning, I staggered downstairs and groggily interrogated a bewildered Mrs. Hudson as to his whereabouts.

And when the pain finally began to hit me, I drowned it out as best I could. I returned to the almost daily use of cocaine, which Watson had always deplored, and when even that failed to dull the agony I turned to alcohol instead. I spent several weeks in a hazy stupor of inactivity, Mrs. Hudson emerging sometimes from the smoke-filled gloom, attempting to force me to eat.

Eventually I came round, to find Mycroft standing in my rooms, having confiscated both my supply of cocaine and all the alcohol in the vicinity, hence condemning me to face a lonely, hideous, reality. I believe I may have practised some of my bare-knuckle fighting skills on him, but he refused to relent. I blamed him all I could, but mostly I blamed myself. If only I had gone out with him instead of staying, sunk into one of my ridiculous black moods, I might have been able to push him out of the way. Or even better, the beast might have brought about my end instead. Watson would have coped with the loss better than I.

I fell into the deepest depression I had ever experienced. I hopelessly bargained with myself, with fate, with whatever had driven Watson to take that stroll. But it was all no use. I felt empty, stupefied, and spent weeks on end locked in my room, refusing even Mrs. Hudson access, reading Watson's accounts of our adventures together, which I had so unjustly criticised.

It was nearly two years later before I returned to my practice as a consulting detective. At first my cases were uniformly mundane – if anything I believe Lestrade was attempting to lower me back into my old habits gently. But then _she _arrived.

I had received the telegram that morning.

_Mr. Sherlock Holmes. I must speak with you urgently. I believe my life may be in danger. Yours faithfully, Miss Anne Chantrey._

Mrs. Hudson admitted her into my room at approximately a half an hour past noon. She was certainly a handsome woman, petite but with a certain poise to her head that showed her force of character. Her eyes were a sparkling shade of blue, her small face pale and determined, long, thin hands clasped together worriedly rather than demurely. She was dressed in the dull black of mourning, but there was no trace of tears on her elegant face.

"Mr. Holmes?" she asked questioningly.

I nodded. "Miss Chantrey?"

_**Anne**_

He wasn't quite as I had expected him. He seemed unusually tall to my eyes; he cannot have been much than a shade over six feet, but his excessive thinness seemed to accentuate this. His arms looked as though one could snap them with a single touch. His fingers were so long and spindly they appeared like pale spiders. His face was sharply and uncomfortably angular, his bright grey eyes hooded under heavy black eyebrows.

"Why have you come to see me, Miss Chantrey?" he said quietly. His voice was soft, but clear and articulate.

"I had better get to the point," I said, glancing down at my interlaced fingers. "If I may start at the beginning…?"

"The best place to start, in my opinion," he said, with the barest hint of a smile.


	2. Chapter 2 Deductions

**Yay! Finally finished second chapter so here it is – enjoy!**

_**Anne**_

I hesitated, staring at my clasped hands. "I wanted to ask you something before I explained the details of this… case to you."

"What would that be?"

"I have heard rumours of your… deductive powers, and I wondered…"

"Let me guess – you have read the romanticised descriptions of my cases documented by my friend… my late friend Dr. Watson? I must assure you that he far exaggerated my abilities."

Something flickered across that dead white face, and I felt a pang of sympathy. I knew full well was it was like to lose someone close to you.

"Oh." I didn't know what to say.

"But all the same, I will deduce what I may. After all, all the facts are there in front of me."

He stood very suddenly, making me start backwards in fright. He gave me an amused glance, and then proceeded to pace around me, like a predator, his sharp eyes analysing everything about me. I wasn't sure if I felt scared or… something else.

"The fact that you have recently lost someone is made blindingly obvious by the choice of your attire," he said casually. "But though the faint pink tinge to your nose and eyes indicate that you have wept recently, said tinge is not so excessive as to indicate the loss either of your parents, unless you were not at all close (in which case what would be the need for your tears?) or you are a young lady of unusual emotional detachment."

I raised my eyebrows. "And how can you tell that I am not a young lady of unusual emotional detachment?"

He indicated my interlocked fingers. "Your hands are shaking slightly, and your face is pale – you are nervous about merely consulting me, which indicates you are far from emotionally detached."

I flushed, embarrassed at how easily he was able to read me. He noticed, and gave a little apologetic bow. "Sorry."

I shook my head. "Please continue."

"There is no ring on your marriage finger, and nor is there any paler skin that would indicate that one was recently there, therefore your lost loved one was not your husband. I doubt it would be one of your grandparents – in which case… Maybe your…" He hesitated. "Guardian?"

"Yes – my uncle," I said, bowing my head. "My parents are dead."

"I am sorry," he said awkwardly.

"Don't be. They died when I was merely a child."

"I remain sorry – a loss is devastating however recent or otherwise it may be." He looked suddenly pensive, and I recalled the note in the papers a year or so ago recording the unexpected demise of Dr. John Watson. I fought an unnatural desire to embrace this apparently cold and passionless individual, but managed to restrain myself.

"Now…" He steepled his fingers together, pursing his lips, and observed my face carefully. "You are obviously doing well financially at present, though you have not always been so fortunate."

Forestalling my question, he pointed delicately to the silver necklace I wore about my neck. "That necklace is obviously not a cheap piece, and therefore you must be reasonably wealthy, and yet you have made the effort to patch a tear in your dress when a lady accustomed to such opulence would have merely commissioned a new one to be sewn – you have obviously had to manage with little income for a time, and your old habits have stayed with you."

He frowned again. I felt as if he were delving into my very soul.

"You are a stubborn and independent young lady – you care little about what others think about it, except perhaps your close friends, of whom you have very few."

I opened my mouth to object, but he merely smiled. "If you had a number of close contacts whom you trusted, then why would you come to me, a perfect stranger, with a matter of such delicacy? As to your stubbornness, I deduce that you have arranged your own hair this morning (the wisps of hair at the nape of your neck are the giveaway) - though a woman with enough income to purchase such a necklace would surely have a maid employed. And the clasp you wear in it is blatantly out of fashion (perhaps your late mother's?) and yet you do not care about other's opinions of you enough for you to change your behaviour – hence a certain strength of character."

He gave me an appraising glance. "May I see your hand?"

"Oh… err… certainly…"

He took it eagerly, like a small child, his fingers surprisingly warm. He turned it over in his, his wide warm palm unexpectedly callused and scarred – occasional patches of lighter skin that I believed his friend had reported as being caused by strong acids.

"Hm." He pursed his lips again, peering intently at my hand. "Slight calluses on the fingertips… Suggesting perhaps…" He frowned. "A wealthy lady would not be using a typewriter, therefore I theorise – a pianist?"

I nodded mutely.

"You also have a certain… authority about you that does not come merely with status. Although an occupation would be unnecessary with such money, I can see that something to alleviate the inevitable boredom might be pleasant – therefore perhaps a teacher or governess?"

"Yes," I said simply, awed. "Of English, Latin, Geometry and Music."

"Ha!" He moved away from me abruptly and sat once more on his couch, smiling properly for the first time, grey eyes curiously glinting. "I am certainly impressed, but are you? Will those deductions serve you well for the moment?"

"Your abilities are beyond anything which I could have imagined," I said honestly.

His lips twitched again for a moment, and then his smile faded off his face. He looked very far away suddenly, and I guessed that he was thinking once more of his late friend.

Finally he seemed to come back to life again and gave me a vague smile. "I am terribly sorry."

"That's…"

"Anyway." He leaned forwards again, his eyes sparkling with new life. "Tell me about this case of yours."

**Author's Note: Hope you enjoyed it – sorry the deduction wasn't up to much but I'm no Arthur Conan Doyle! Please review!**

PS. The words of Anne's which send Holmes into a reverie are very similar to those uttered by Watson in 'The Adventure of the Cardboard Box', which is perhaps why they affect Holmes so strongly!


	3. Chapter 3 The Case

_**Holmes**_

"My father was an impoverished musician, and my mother was the daughter of a high-class city businessman. So as you might guess, my mother's family reacted badly to their marriage, and in fact disowned her, leaving her and my father practically destitute."

"I was born two years later, and sadly my mother died giving birth to me. My father brought me up for the first six years of my life, but then he was sadly killed in an accident, and my mother's sister's husband (who was a widower) decided to take me in, my grandfather (responsible for the original disownment of my mother) having since died himself and with him the unfriendly attitudes of the family."

I watched her with keen attention, noting the way her eyes went dark and intent as she talked so passionately. "Did this uncle have any children?"

"He did. My brother (or rather, my cousin – that is how I have been brought up to speak of him), George, is ten years older than myself, my sister Violet is six years older and my other sister Elsie five years older. I had a relatively lonely childhood, spending much time by myself, playing in the grounds of a house far more massive than I was ever accustomed to."

I said nothing. I knew very well what a lonely childhood was like, with a tyrant of a father who would beat you as soon as look at you, a mother too meek and weak-willed to protest at his behaviour and a brother seven years your senior who was too wrapped up in his own brilliance to pay any attention to you.

"So your late uncle was no biological relation to you?"

"No. But for many years he was like a father to me."

"Absolutely. Sorry for the interruption – please continue."

"For a few years all was well. I got on well with my foster siblings, and aside from the occasional predictable childhood squabbles, there was no enmity between us. My uncle, although sometimes distant, was very kind to me, though he never replaced the ever-fading memory of my own father. But I was bored, and so begged my uncle to be allowed to attend school. It caused a certain amount of friction between us, but he finally relented. I was bright and hard working, and I wanted to continue with my education. This caused still more tension between us, but I think he thought it his duty to look after me. Eventually he agreed to me having a private tutor."

"A private tutor?"

She smiled. "University was not really an option."

She carried on. "So I received my qualifications at last, and I now teach at a small boys school near the village where I live. But then, a few weeks ago, my uncle died."

"I'm sorry," I murmured politely.

She gave me a pitying glance. "I don't see why you should be. You didn't know him. Anyway - that's when these started arriving."

She produced a brown envelope from her handbag – I was bemused as to how it had ever fitted it there – and set it before me. "I've had three so far – one two days after my uncle's death, one a week later, and one yesterday. That was when I finally decided I ought to come to you."

I opened the envelope. Inside it were three other envelopes, each with the address clumsily written in letters cut from a newspaper. I carefully opened the first. The writing was also cut from newspaper headlines.

It was blunt and to the point.

IF YOU WANT TO LIVE THEN SAY NOTHING ABOUT THIS TO ANYONE AND GET OUT OF THE COUNTRY I DON'T CARE HOW YOU DO IT DON'T STOP RUNNING OR I WILL FIND YOU

I raised my eyebrows again. "Subtle."

I opened the next note.

YOU HAVE NOT DONE AS I HAVE ASKED YOU WILL FACE THE CONSEQUENCES IF YOU GO TO THE POLICE YOU AND YOUR FAMILY WILL DIE I KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE WHERE THEIR CHILDREN GO TO SCHOOL I WILL KILL THEM IF YOU DON'T DO AS I SAY

Anne gave me a pained grimace as I opened the final note.

SOON YOU WILL KNOW HOW SERIOUS I AM

A curious shudder went through me.

"Hm," I said, examining them closely. "Well done for keeping the envelopes. It might be possible…"

"To find fingerprints? Yes – I thought so. Many people's first instincts seem to be to throw such things in the fire, but I thought I could go a lot further to finding out the culprit if I kept them."

I gave her an appraising glance. She was obviously very intelligent.

"So why haven't you done as they asked?"

"What?"  
"Why haven't you fled the country?"

She smiled. "I thought you had already deduced that I was a stubborn person, Mr. Holmes. I don't give in to melodramatic threats."

"These children the note speaks of…?"

"Oh – sorry – I forgot… George has a wife, Maude – a very plain, wooden creature, and they have three children, who are four, seven and nine. They live at Holston Hall – my uncle's home."

"I'm sorry – do you also live there?"

"Yes – at the moment – I have a little cottage in the village but there was an accidental fire a few weeks ago and it's still being repaired. Violet is also married and living there – her husband's away in the army."

I felt another painful pang at the unexpected thought of Watson. "Was there any chance that this fire was not an accident?"

She laughed. "Oh no – it was quite my own stupid fault."

I frowned, but nodded for her to continue. "Sorry for the interruption – you were talking about Violet?"

"Yes - her children are both very young – one's three and the other nearly one. She's quite fiery and ready to fly off the handle at anything at the moment – she has a lot to cope with, I suppose. Elsie is engaged to a young man – she's quite flighty and the two of them go off gallivanting off all around the country at every opportunity (George disapproves terribly), but they're staying at the house too at the moment because of Uncle. The atmosphere's pretty horrid there at the moment, actually. Elsie is terribly uncomfortable being there, and so is her young man – they just want to get away. While Violet is awfully jealous of them, I think. She gives them funny little looks sometimes – Elsie seems so young and free still, with no children or husband away fighting to tie her down. And of course George is very stuffy about the whole thing, with Maude just hunched by his side like a rather unintelligent sheep. I think he might be jealous, too, in a strange way."

Once more I was struck by her commendable tendency to observe her surroundings and her natural intuition.

"And yet you came to ask me for help."

"I'm sorry?"

"The note instructs you to say nothing about it to anyone, especially not the police, and yet you come to consult me."

"You are not the police, and we have already noted that I am a stubborn woman. I will not be beaten into submission by a few venomous notes. But what are your deductions on the subject of them, anyway?"

I peered at them again. "By the font of the writing I deduce that they are cut from a copy of the Times. Watson used to…"

My throat seized up abruptly, and I blinked quickly. "The notepaper is unremarkable – of reasonable quality, but not of such a superior quality as to be recognisable. The letters have been pasted on, and unfortunately I expect that a criminal who has gone to such lengths to conceal his or her identity would not have been foolish enough to leave prints. But then we come to motive – have you any ideas?"

She shrugged. "Not particularly. I don't see much reason for anyone to want me out of the way, to be honest. I seem perfectly normal and harmless."

I smiled, and narrowly avoided saying 'you're not normal' – which would have made sense to me but might have caused a rather awkward scene.

"At the risk of seeming insensitive – what about your uncle's will? Is there anything in there that might cause anyone to desire your death?"

She laughed. "No – I don't think so… His estate was to be split up between his blood relatives – that's only George, Violet and Elsie, now – oh, and some obscure cousin somewhere in Cornwall. He left various bequests to the servants and to the school where I work, and a few hundred pounds to me, I think. But the estate is massive – if someone wanted to get rid of one of the family they'd do far better threatening George – I really haven't got anything worth taking."

"And – again, my apologies if this seems insensitive – to whom does your money go in the event of your untimely departure, whether from the country or from the mortal world?"

She laughed again. It was a nice sound.

"I haven't yet made a will – dying is not something I have considered much, up until I started receiving this letters. I expect it would probably go to George. I have no other relations. And what earthly motive would George have for killing me anyway – if he owns most of Holston Hall, a paltry few hundred pounds would be nothing to him!"

"All right then, assuming a monetary motive is not likely, let us consider the other options. Are you aware of possessing any information that someone would wish to keep secret?"

She wrinkled her nose. "Enough to kill me for? I seriously doubt it. And if I do know something I have no idea what it is."

I frowned again. "And I suppose you have no enemies?"

"Apart from my reluctant ten-year-old pupils? No."

"It is an interesting problem," I said, almost grudgingly. For some reason, I was torn between wanting to either bring the case to a dramatic and showy conclusion or dragging it out as long as humanly possible.

"That is why I brought it to you. What is our course of action?"

"I would very much like to visit Holston Hall, if I could. I would like to maybe talk to your family – see if I can ferret out any other possible motives. This letter-writer is obviously someone who either knows you personally or someone who at least knows the residents of Holston Hall reasonably well. Have you told your family about these letters?"

She flushed slightly. "No – I have not. I haven't wanted to bother them."

"In that case, you can merely inform them that I am a visiting friend of a friend, or even that I am investigating a separate case in the village and you thought it polite to invite me in."

"You seem to have already planned far ahead, Mr. Holmes."

"I like to be prepared."

"Me too. I arrived in London late last night and stayed the night in a hotel – may I meet you back here in half an hour to give me time to pack my belongings and you yours? We'll have to travel most of the journey by train, but then we can then take a single hansom to Rybury – that is the name of the village – if that is convenient for you?"

"Yes, most certainly."

"And… Oh – I'm most terribly sorry – I completely forgot about your fee. I have taken up far too much of your time already." She burrowed into her handbag and produced a small package of notes. "That is all I have at the moment, I'm afraid, but…"

I waved it aside. "Do not worry. I do not wish for any fee."

"But Mr. Holmes…"

"I thought you had read the accounts of my work? If I may quote them – 'my professional charges are upon a fixed scale… I do not vary them, save when I remit them altogether…'"

She raised her head proudly. "I do not require charity. I am quite willing to pay you the full sum, plus any other expenses."

I smiled. "I tell you, Miss Chantrey – I believe this to be an interesting problem, and therefore am quite happy to just enjoy the mental stimulation, with no need for monetary gain on my part. If it makes you feel better, you may pay for the hansom."

She smiled unwillingly. "If you are sure…"

"Perfectly."

"Then I will see you in a half hour."

"May I keep the letters?"

"Oh, most certainly. Thank you for your time, Mr. Holmes."

And with that she stood, nodded her head to me, her dark curls bobbing, and left.


	4. Chapter 4 Reflections

_**Holmes**_

I frowned, and lit up a cigarette. I had so many times told Watson that the emotional qualities of a case acted against the faculties of clear reasoning – how a client should remain in a problem a mere unit. Otherwise it inevitably clouded the judgement.

The old jagged wound in my heart ached again at the thought of my friend, but I tried my best to ignore it. I was also developing a throbbing pain in my left temple, possibly as a result of having slept for only a single hour the previous night. I tried to ignore that, too.

I remembered referencing Watson to the case of Josephine Irwin, who I had met once at a social gathering and been quite charmed (as was everyone else present there) by her grace, intelligence, and beauty. Three years later, she was hanged as a direct result of evidence provided by myself proving that she had poisoned her three small children out of pure greed for their insurance money.

I had to admit that that experience had shaken me greatly, and I resolved to avoid women altogether, if at all possible. And indeed I recalled that when I began to associate with them for purely professional reasons, I found myself generally quite immune to their charms. When Mary Morstan, Watson's future wife, came to explain her problem to us, Watson commented on how attractive she was, and I honestly replied that I had not noticed. He responded by comparing me to a calculating machine, clearly upset by my apparent disrespect for the object of his affections.

But then again, I had not always retained my frosty outlook on the entire female gender – Irene Adler was the perfect example. Beautiful as the devil, elusive as smoke, and as cunning as a snake. I had cherished a passing infatuation with her, but had often amused myself at Watson's expense by exaggerating my feelings and watching the little knowing looks he would shoot in my direction, thinking me to be hopelessly lovelorn.

However, Irene Adler had become Irene Norton many years ago now, and though I appreciated the energy and fresh interest women brought to me through their cases, I had little affection for them in general. Through actually becoming engaged to Briony Tamworth, Charles Milverton's house maid, in search for information in a case, I had learned about not only the habits of Milverton's household, but also more about the habits of women. Most significantly, that they enjoyed talking for long periods of time about subjects that seemed to me commonplace and mundane, and that they enjoyed cuddling, a practice that I was instinctively repelled by.

I scowled with renewed vigour and drew in a long breath on the cigarette. I had to remind myself that it was merely my body that was attracted to Anne Chantrey, and that my mind could remain detached. After all, her whole case could have been a total fabrication from beginning to end – such an obviously talented, beautiful and intelligent woman would no doubt have some small skill at acting.

I stopped dead. Had I really (even in my most innermost thoughts) just referred to Anne Chantrey as talented, beautiful and intelligent? Maybe it was not just my body that was attracted to her. I groaned.

"Mr. Holmes?" said a timid voice from outside the door.

I raised my head. "Come in, Mrs. Hudson."

My landlady entered, bearing a tray of tea and cakes, and looking extremely flustered.

"Oh, Mr. Holmes – I am so terribly sorry, Lily (that's the new maid, sir) only just told me that Miss Chantrey had arrived a few minutes ago, sir, and I'm ever so sorry for not bringing up your tea earlier, only she didn't tell me…"

"It's quite fine, Mrs. Hudson, I assure you," I said quietly, massaging my temple. It really was hurting badly now. I wondered vaguely when had been the last time I'd eaten. Those cakes would look quite appealing if I didn't feel so nauseous.

"Oh, is she gone already, Mr. Holmes? I am so dreadfully sorry…"

"I told you, it's fine," I said, a trifle snappishly. She fell silent, offended. I breathed out, my eyes closed. "Sorry, Mrs. Hudson. I have a bad headache, that's all."

"Strange, sir – you are looking unusually bonny today."

"I'm sorry?"

"You've got a nice colour, sir – you seem quite _alive_, if you know what I mean."

I groaned in despair and growing pain. Was it really that bad that my body was betraying me too now?

"Oh, is it that bad, Mr. Holmes? My sister has some herbal remedy that she swears by, sir…"

I groaned again, and turned to go to my room. "By the way, Mrs. Hudson, I'm going to Rybury for a few days."

"Rybury? Where's that, sir?"

"No idea."

_**Anne**_

I crossed the road, my mind whirling.

It was not that I hadn't expected him to be intelligent (though he had surpassed my expectations) but I hadn't expected him to be so goddamned _attractive_. Not to mention vulnerable. I frowned. I thought I remembered from the papers the death of his friend being a year or so ago, but surely that was a long time still to be mourning?

I checked myself. After losing my father, I ought to have known that mourning had no time limit. I sighed and decided to call a cab.

_**Holmes**_

For some reason, I had been paranoid that she wasn't going to come back. There was no reason for her not to, but I spent seven and half minutes anxious pacing before I heard a knock on the door. I got to the door before the vacant-looking Lily and opened it quickly. Miss Chantrey was standing outside, a hansom cab waiting behind her.

"Are you ready?" she asked breathlessly.

"Oh… err – quite."

"Excellent. Shall we be off then?"

"By all means."

I bade Mrs. Hudson a hasty goodbye and hurried to the hansom to open the door for Miss Chantrey, who gave a little smile at my clumsy attempt at chivalry, before clambering in daintily. I put my case at my feet, nodded to the driver, and we were off.

**Author's Note:** Having no clue about the anatomy (if that is the right word) of hansom cabs in Holmes' time, I don't really know what I'm talking about at all when it comes to mentioning them (which I will try and avoid whenever possible), but I'm afraid such technical issues aren't top of my priority list. Sorry also in advance for any other historical inaccuracies, though I'll try to avoid having Lestrade use a mobile phone.


	5. Chapter 5 The Journey

_**Anne**_

"So," he said, his brow furrowed, pencil poised. "If you would - tell me the names of the children again – slowly."

"Very well. First there's George and his wife Maude…"

"I think you referred to her as having some qualities in common with a 'rather unintelligent sheep'?"

I could feel myself reddening. "Um… yes…"

"Sorry for the interruption. Pray continue."

"They have three children – Jack, who is nine, Adam, who is seven, and Ruth, who is four."

He was scribbling furiously. "Thank you. And… Violet?"

"Um… Elizabeth is three, and Charlie is one."

"And Elsie's young man?"

"Are you merely very inquisitive, or does this questioning have a purpose?"

He smiled. "It is merely so that if I am impersonating a great friend of yours, I would do well to at least vaguely have heard of the members of your family."

I sighed. "William."

"Hm – a quite plain, stolid name?"

I shrugged. "Maybe. But he's a strange man – very intense and sort of… dark."

"Do you like him?"

"Why should my personal opinions matter?"

"Because I think you are a lady of good judgement. Your opinion could be very useful. Besides, he is the obvious outsider in the equation. Do you like him?"

I sighed again. "I don't like him, no. He scares me a little."

"So do you think he could be the writer of these notes?"

I frowned, and then shook my head. "No. Too underhand. Too _subtle_. If William wanted me to get out of the country I'm sure he'd either take me there himself tied up in the back of a boat, or hold a gun to my head until I did."

"All right, then." He continued to scribble in his notebook.

I pursed my lips. "Right. We ought also to think up an alternate identity to you. If the culprit is indeed within my own household, we do not want to introduce you as Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the famous consulting detective."

His lips curled. "The _only _non-official consulting detective."

The journey was usually long and tedious by oneself, but with someone to talk to it passed more quickly. The hansom was beginning to struggle with the rutted and muddy roads, and so I guessed we were no more than half an hour from our destination.

"You could be a teacher I had met at a… conference somewhere – someone I used to know… I told them I was going to a conference today, you see."

Mr. Holmes nodded approvingly. "Yes, indeed. Except Chemistry is the only subject that I could fake teaching knowledge about, being woefully ignorant of most."

I nodded. "Very well. We can have met during our training…"

He raised a hand, like a small schoolboy. "Surely I do not look the same age as you – at least not enough to pretend we studied together?"

I frowned. "I don't see why you could not have pursued a career before turning to teaching – you cannot be much older than me, surely?"

There was an awkward pause.

"I am thirty five," he said abruptly, glancing at his knees.

"I am twenty four," I countered nervously. I confessed to myself that I was surprised at his age. I had expected him to be far nearer to my own age – he seemed to be bubbling with some kind of ferocious energy just beneath the surface of the calm exterior, which lent his face a look of youthful vigour.

He smiled crookedly. "You see my point." He observed his feet again and gave a theatrical sigh. "Anyway, since you seem surprised by the fact, I'm sure I can pass myself off as ten years younger than I am."

I flushed, annoyed that my surprise had apparently been so obvious.

He leaned back in the cab, dark, intelligent eyes locked on mine. A wry smile was curling his lips. "What about my alter ego, then? A name, first, to work with."

I smiled also. I had heard of his acting abilities in Dr. Watson's books.

"Maybe – Samuel?"

He wrinkled his nose.

"Um… Neville?"

The look of disgust intensified.

"Isaac?"

He scowled even harder. "That has to be (after Sherlock) my least favourite name in the world."

"Don't you like your name?" I asked curiously.

His eyebrows did gymnastics again. "Would you? _Sherlock_, for God's sake." His look of comical surprise was so funny that I had the urge to burst into giggles.

I shrugged noncommittally. "Anyway – how about Benjamin?"

He gave an elaborate sigh. "I suppose Benjamin will do. How about Benjamin Stamford?"

"Stamford?" I said questioningly.

He shrugged, wrinkling his nose. "An old… acquaintance."

I raised my eyebrows. "Not a friend?"

He shrugged again. "I don't really have a great deal of friends."

And with that, he glanced out of the window, and I guessed the conversation was closed.

_**Holmes**_

She went to sleep after a while, her head lolling forwards slightly on to her chest. I bit my lip. Having fallen asleep in a similar position many times before myself, I knew the painful stiff neck that resulted. I came to an unusually daring decision. I leaned forwards and very gently lifted her head to a more natural position.

She stirred and I suddenly drew back, my heart beating furiously. I didn't want her to wake and catch me holding her head in my hands and get the wrong idea. Well… to get any ideas at all, really. I flushed deep red, even though it was now obvious that she wasn't going to wake, and stared out of the window. After a few seconds, I took a breath, and turned back again.

Her heart-shaped face was pale and delicate, lightly freckled, her chest rising and falling very slightly as she breathed. Her soft dark curls half covered one half of her face, and a slight crease of a frown marred her peaceful expression. I reached out and gently brushed the hair back from her face. Her skin was warm and soft, and as she stirred again, the little frown disappeared from her forehead.

I moved my hand away and forced myself to look out of the window again. I wasn't used to thinking like this – this was ridiculous, my logical reasoning had been shattered, but I couldn't stop it…

A few minutes later, the hansom slowed and stopped. I glanced up and my eyes widened as I saw the grim, grey, imposing building that stood before us. Tangled with ivy, the dark mullioned windows watching us like eyes in the growing twilight. Anne jerked awake as the driver opened her door; I picked up my case and went to assist her out of the carriage, but she smiled politely and got out herself. Together we stood for a moment, looking up at the house.

**Author's Note: Sorry it has been a while since I wrote anything but first I was in Wales for half term with no Internet and so spent most of the time on the beach :D and then have been revising madly for end of year exams at school ****… Plus the Inspiration Fairy has not visited lately but I will try and keep plodding on - reviews might just encourage me **** No, it's not blackmail guilty look Anyway – thanks for reading!**


	6. Chapter 6 Evening

_**Anne**_

I glanced across at him, trying to gauge his reaction. I had very quickly learned that he allowed few emotions to escape the pale mask of his face, but I could sense that he was slightly intimidated by the grandeur of my home. I gave an embarrassed smile. "Um… Shall we…?"

"Certainly," he said, his smile flashing back again in an instant. I was intrigued by the way he could look completely impassive one minute and positively glowing with some hidden inner energy the next. "We must meet up after dinner to discuss my first impressions – if that is convenient?"

I nodded.

Together we walked up the small garden path, and I nervously knocked on the door, feeling foolishly awkward. After all, it was my own home, but I was afraid that Mr. Holmes might sense how much of an outsider I still felt there.

The door opened and the elderly butler, Tressilian1, peered short-sightedly at us, beaming when he recognised me. "Miss Chantrey! We didn't know whether to expect you back tonight or not? How was the conference?"

He did a remarkable job of ignoring Mr. Holmes' tall, dark figure beside me.

"Very good, thank you," I replied. "This is Benjamin Stamford, an old friend of mine, whom I met at the conference – it has been many years since we last saw each other and I thought I might invite him back here for a few days, as he lives far away and I did not wish to subject him to the general squalor of the London hotels." I took a breath, knowing that I had sounded babbling and unnatural, but once again Tressilian maintained his imperturbable expression.

"Very good, Miss," he nodded sincerely. "You are very welcome, Mr. Stamford. Now, do come in… The family are in the living room, Miss Chantrey – I believe dinner will be served in less than a half hour."

We entered the house, and I shivered unconsciously. It was always cold in the hallway. In fact, the entire house was always cold, with the possible exception of the living room, which was occasionally warmed by a roaring fire. I assure Mr. Holmes that we could leave our cases downstairs to be taken up by one of the servants, and we almost timidly proceeded to the living room. Once again I felt immensely foolish feeling so out of place in my own home, but the feeling was impossible to ignore.

The door opened just as we reached it, and a blur of auburn hair rushed towards me and crushed me in a warm embrace. "My cousin, Elsie," I said to Mr. Holmes, by way of an introduction. He nodded quietly.

She released me and beamed. "Oh, Anne, it's so nice to have you back. You forget quite how old and lonely and mysterious this house feels until you're left practically alone in it – personally I don't understand how the others stand it! I though we weren't to be expecting you back before tomorrow?"

"Oh, no, the conference finished early and I thought I should better head back." I was suddenly acutely aware of Mr. Holmes standing behind me, his presence somehow comforting. The thought made my heart flutter again. "Elsie, this is Benjamin Stamford, an old friend of mine. Benjamin, this is my cousin, Elsie."

_**Holmes**_

I gave Elsie an appraising glance. She was a petite woman, even smaller than Miss Chantrey was, with curling coppery hair and a bright face with a strange, pinched look to it. For a terrible moment I thought she was going to hug me too, but instead she gave me a coy smile (I inwardly cringed with embarrassment) and shook my hand.

"Unusual for Anne to bring back… friends," she commented slyly.

"Be quiet," Miss Chantrey snapped. I glanced at her curiously, but she avoided my gaze.

"I was just making an observation," Elsie replied innocently, though her eyes flashed. "You'd better come in and be introduced to the others – let's hope Anne can make more of an effort to be civil to _them_."

She opened the door and led us in. "Anne's back," she said, rather unnecessarily. "And here's her friend Benjamin."

Miss Chantrey flushed. I found the sight unexpectedly charming. "Here's… um… My cousin George, and his wife Maude…" I nodded politely to both of them. "And my other cousin, Violet."

"It is delightful to meet you," I replied smoothly, reaching forwards to shake George's hand. I bowed slightly to Maude and to Violet and planted a chaste kiss on each of their outstretched hands. Maude was an unremarkable looking woman dressed in a conservative outfit, while Violet was tall and striking, with long dark hair and intelligent eyes. I acknowledged mentally that other men might find her attractive, though she held no particularly charm for myself. "I am an old friend of Anne's – we met again at the conference in London and she very courteously agreed to provide me with a bed for a few days until I returned to my home."

It felt strange calling her Anne, but the sensation was not altogether unpleasant. A second later, my heart fluttered as I realised a secondary meaning to "provide me with a bed" which I fervently hoped nobody else had noticed. I was ashamed of myself for even considering the thought – after all, the poor girl was ten – no, _eleven_ – years younger than myself, she was obviously vulnerable, and she was a _client_.

"Well… er… It's very nice to have you as our guest, Mr…?"

"Stamford. But please – call me Benjamin."

"Well then – Mr. Stamford – I presume you will be joining us for dinner?" George's manner was gruff, but appeared genuine. Then again, I was a good enough actor myself to appreciate the fact that one's true emotions could be easily hidden if necessary.

"If that is convenient, then certainly…" I bowed my head again slightly.

"Oh yes – it will be quite easily arranged – here, Maude – would you mind going to the kitchen and telling them to set an extra place for Mr. Stamford, please? Thank you."

Maude scuttled off. I had been able to observe her only for a few seconds, but she had had a vacant, empty look in her eyes that suggested to me some great weakness of the mind. But there was something sad within that face, too, as if she were somehow bewildered, trapped in a world she didn't understand. It sent a fresh chill down my spine.

_**Anne**_

Dinner was relatively uneventful. I had hardly tasted my food (in fact, I could not even recall what the meal had been) – I was so fixated on Mr. Holmes. He seemed to have assumed a whole new persona in between leaving the hansom and entering the house – instead of being quiet and reserved, he was sparklingly witty and intelligent, discussing politics (to my surprise, considering that Dr. Watson had mentioned his lack of knowledge of the subject) eloquently with George, trying his best to coax a shy and tongue-tied Maude out of her shell with amusing anecdotes and a light, easy smile, exchanging lively banter and stories of travel with Elsie, and chatting quietly and seriously with Violet. Every now and again he would raise his head and shoot me a quick, conspiratorial smile that made the pulse of my heart accelerate. Soon the atmosphere felt warmer than it had done for a long time in that house, and I felt profoundly grateful to him. For a moment I forgot the real reason he was here – just as a professional investigating a case. My blood ran cold at the thought of the letters that I had managed to push from my mind…

I had been wondering where William was, but as I dragged myself back to reality, I heard Mr. Holmes asking Elsie that exact question.

"I remember that in one of her letters Anne once said that you were off travelling with your young man," he said mildly. His eyes smiled at her, and I felt an unexpected wave of jealousy. "Why haven't had I had the pleasure of being introduced to him?"

She laughed. "He's gone to Manchester for a few days to sort out some business. Who knows – maybe if you… erm… stick around…" She shot me a cheeky smile. "Maybe you will yet have the pleasure of meeting him."

"Maybe," he said, smiling and taking another sip of his wine. I realised that he had eaten next to nothing of his meal, and concern flashed through me. I would talk to him afterwards about that.

A moment later, George stood up, a little unsteady on his feet after all the wine. I flushed darkly, hoping that Mr. Holmes would not notice his inebriation, though I knew he would.

"I would like…" he said loudly, beaming around at us all. "To make a toast." We waited expectantly. "To new-found friendship." He smiled at Mr. Holmes, who smiled patiently back. "To love." He turned to Maude. "And to good wine!" We all laughed politely.

I murmured, "to love" as I raised my own glass. Mr. Holmes shot me another look from across the table. His dark eyes were glittering. He raised his glass a fraction more, as if toasting me personally, and then took a long sip. His eyes were beautiful dark pools that I was sure I would be sucked into if I looked too long – I wrenched my eyes away.

We finished dinner soon afterwards, and, although it was conventional for the men to remain behind, smoking and drinking, George had abandoned tradition for this evening. We drifted into the living room once more, and the talk somehow turned to music. George ran his hand affectionately over the ancient grand piano. When I had first moved there, I had found it intimidating, made of dark, heavy wood, and so much bigger than the little one that Father had bought at rock bottom price from a music shop that was closing down. Even then, we had to go with a little less food for quite a while afterwards. But it was well worth it – I had learnt to play from a very young age under the watchful eye of my father, and adored the instrument.

"Can you play, Mr. Stamford?" George asked, his words only slightly slurred, the glass of wine still in his hand.

Mr. Holmes shook his head sadly, his long white hand reaching wistfully for the piano. "Not the piano. I play the violin, though."

"Have you got it with you?" I asked eagerly, before I realised what I was saying. "I'd… um… We'd love to hear you play." I blushed again as he raised his eyebrows at me.

"Certainly – it is in my case upstairs."

He rose and went to go and get it. For a moment, the room went deathly quiet. "He seems a very nice gentleman, Anne," Violet said quietly. "I'm surprised I hadn't heard you mention him before." I blushed.

"We hadn't seen each other for such a long time," I clarified quickly. "It was quite a coincidence, us meeting up again – he lives in Cornwall now, you see, and…"

"He hasn't got a Cornish accent," Violet continued mildly.

I swallowed hard, irritated. "Well, he hasn't lived there long…"

Mr. Holmes came back into the living room, and I breathed a sigh of relief. He was holding an old, though well polished, violin case, and was looking unusually shy. He took out the violin with delicate care, and George uttered an exclamation.

"Is that a Stradivarius?"

Mr. Holmes smiled softly. "It is indeed."

"By God! You must excuse me for asking, but how much did you pay for it? I have heard that they can sell for more than a hundred guineas!"

"Five hundred," Mr. Holmes corrected calmly, that serene smile spreading across his pale features. "But I purchased this…" He ran his fingers lovingly across the strings. "For a mere fifty-five shillings in Tottenham Court Road."

George opened his mouth in astonishment, but Mr. Holmes silenced him with a glance and lifted his bow to the strings. A moment later, the melody began.

When my students attempted to play the violin, often the results were ear-splittingly awful, akin to someone attempt to strangle a belligerent cat. But when Mr. Holmes played, it was a beautiful, soothing sound, beyond description. The melody was not one I recognised – I presumed it was something he had composed himself - but the sound made my legs feel shaky. I wanted to close my eyes and drift away on the waves of music. His own eyes were closed, that faint smile still on his lips, the bow dancing over the strings and tempting the exquisite, melancholy notes from them, his long white fingers skilfully twitching. His smile was confident and beatific – almost divine. I could not tell whether the song was that of lamentation or celebration – I could only listen in awe, my mouth gaping open. I felt as if the music was reaching into my very soul, shining light into parts of myself I hadn't even known existed. Each note blended into the next perfectly - a never-ending stream of enchanting melody. As the song came to an end, he opened his eyes, and stared right at me again. The smile crept on to his lips once more, and I felt my heart melt.

The last long lingering note faded, and he straightened again, glancing at us nervously, waiting for approval. We burst into spontaneous applause, and he smiled again, apparently abashed by our appreciation of his music.

"That was… That was…" I tried to put my thoughts into words but failed spectacularly.

"Magnificent, my dear man!" George said jovially, and I felt a sting of anger at how inadequate and almost patronising his words seemed. "You obviously have a great talent!"

"Thank you," Mr. Holmes said quietly, already putting back the instrument into its case. "You are too kind." I stared after it wistfully, wanting so much to hear it again.

"Now it's your turn, Anne," George was continuing loudly. "Let's see how you're getting on with the old piano, eh?"

"Oh… I…" I flushed crimson again. Somehow the thought of playing the piano in front of Mr. Holmes, who was undoubtedly some kind of divine being when it came to music, seemed extremely insulting, as if I was attempting in vain to rival his talent. "No, I couldn't…"

"Oh, go on!" George said brusquely. "No need to be shy, girl! We're all friends here!"

"Go on, Anne!" Elsie said encouragingly.

I flushed a still deeper red and tried to escape. Mr. Holmes touched his hand to my elbow gently, and I jumped and spun around to meet his dark eyes again. I looked away quickly before I could make a complete fool of myself. "Play," he said softly. "I'd like to hear you."

"But… I'm not nearly as good as…"

He smiled again, and my knees wobbled. "It doesn't matter, and I'm sure you're more than capable." His eyes glinted, and I relented.

"I suppose." Awkwardly, I took my place at the piano and lifted the lid of the piano. I was seized with sudden panic – what should I play? I glanced at Mr. Holmes for reassurance, and he merely nodded quietly. I took a deep breath, and decided on Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata, which I had enjoyed experimenting and adapting myself. I breathed out slowly, and placed my fingers on the keys.

_**Holmes**_

Had I imagined that look on her face? I didn't know. I didn't know anything – how could this be happening to me? I was behaving like a schoolboy again, caught up in the bewildering tumult of a first love. But, goddammit, why would she ever be interested in me – I was too old, too emotionless, too damaged… And yet, that look…

She glanced up at me, as if seeking some kind of reassurance, and I nodded encouragingly at her. She took a deep breath in and out, and then began to play.

Her fingers danced impossibly fast over the keys, crossing over each other and back again, the notes twirling around each other in some sweet, invisible cloud that surrounded her. I recognised Beethoven's Piano Sonata No. 14, but changed somehow, her own personality shining out of it. It was impossibly sad, but also glowing with joy. I actually found tears in my eyes, for the first time since…

As the piece finally drifted to a close, I saw her turn back to me, her eyes finding mine immediately, a smile twitching over her features as she saw the wetness on my cheeks. Even the raucous George was finally silent. She stood and walked over to me – I swallowed hard, my stomach turning over. With one small, delicate finger, she reached and touched my tear-stained cheek. Her hand was very warm on my skin.

"I suppose we had better call it quits, Mr. Holmes," she said quietly. "Good night, all."

And she swept from the room before I had a chance to speak to her. Not that I had any idea what words I would have been able to find to say.

1 Searching in vain for a suitable name for a butler, I stumbled upon 'Tressilian', who was a sweet old man in Agatha Christie's 'Hercule Poirot's Christmas', and thought that I might use that (no offence intended to AC, of course!) as it is one of my favourite books – much better than Marple!

**Author's Note: **Phew that was a long chapter – hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I did writing it, though, that said, reading it back it doesn't seem particularly interesting – ah well!

Just a few notes before I go:

- Updates may be a bit erratic for the next few days because as well as end of year exams still it is my 15th birthday on Saturday (happy birthday to me…) so I have to tidy my bedroom and make it look vaguely civilised for when my friend come over – it might sound like a small task but I promise you it can take hours! Particularly as the contents of my bookcase has gradually migrated over the entire floor over the past few months!

- Also, thank you, thank you, thank you to all you guys who reviewed – you have encouraged the Inspiration Fairy to come visiting again, much to my joy – I will name you just to emphasise my thanks: khallure, Lulu-fifi, Carlypso, Skydancinghobbit, PlayingCold and Jael73 – thank you guys! And hey, blackmail works, does it not? Hope you guys especially enjoy this update, and tell me what you think!

- Sorry if the last scene seems a bit Twilight-esque (grr) but I only realised this after I wrote it and I hope I have managed to avoid it somewhat by making Holmes be equally, if not more, affected by Anne's playing and to avoid having Anne melt into a snivelling heap of pathetic devotion on the floor at his feet…

OK – enough notes – well done if you have made it down this far as I would have given up in boredom long ago! Thank you again!


	7. Chapter 7 Conversation

_**Anne**_

"Miss Chantrey? Miss Chantrey?"

The knocking on my bedroom door was becoming more insistent, although the voice was very quiet. I stirred, realising that I had dozed off after lying on my bed to think when I had come upstairs, no doubt the result of many sleepless lights fretting over those stupid letters…

My brain finally kicked in, and I jumped to my feet and ran to open the door. Mr. Holmes was standing outside, looking around furtively, as if he were being watched. He smiled nervously. "Um… Anne…"

"Hello," I said stupidly.

"May I come in?"

I could have sworn my heart stopped. "Sorry?"

"To discuss the case." His lips curled. "I did mention it earlier."

"Oh… Yes… Of course… Come in…"

Flushing furiously again, I opened the door and let him in, trying frantically to comb the knots out of my hair with my fingers. He gave me a vaguely amused look. "Don't worry about that. I'm sorry for waking you."

I didn't even question how he knew that. "Yes – I must have dozed off – I was tired, I suppose."

He smiled. "You were tired in the hansom, too."

I blushed an even brighter shade of scarlet, and he looked apologetic. "Forgive me – I didn't mean to offend you..."

"No – you didn't… I mean…"

I breathed out slowly. "Can we start again? Take a seat."

He settled immediately into the uncomfortable looking rocking chair that I had meant to take myself, leaving me to sit in a large squashy armchair opposite that immediately enveloped me in its saggy velvet cushions. "So," I said, after an awkward pause. "What have you… um… deduced?"

He smiled and steepled his fingers.

_**Holmes**_

To be perfectly honest, having extricated myself from George's jovial lecture on the current economic climate, which I could have sworn was slowly eroding my brain tissue, I had been thinking of going straight to bed.

But when I finally escaped to my room, I found myself sitting on the bed, wanting so desperately to discuss everything that had happened in the last few hours with Watson that it was almost physically painful. Every time I glanced up from my wandering thoughts I expected to him sitting there, his copy of the Times balanced on his knee…

I swallowed hard and the image faded. How could Anne Chantrey have stumbled into my life only a few dizzy hours ago and why in Heaven were the thoughts going around my head now even _there_? And how had her arrival stirred up all these old demons?

Not to mention that the case was hardly a simple one. The ideal solution to the adolescent thoughts that insisted on tormenting my mind would be to solve the case almost instantaneously and then escape back to Baker Street to return to a lonely but risk-free bachelorhood. I considered – it was a wonderful idea, except that I needed to solve the case _now._

_I suppose that might impress Anne. _

I groaned in despair, and tried desperately to _think_.

Anne fluttered into my mind.

_Not about her! About the case!_

But it was useless. Without Watson as a sounding board, my ideas quickly petered out and I found myself absent-mindedly stroking my violin and vaguely considering whether any member of the apparently normal family could really be responsible for such venomous threats. But there was still that inexplicably ominous _atmosphere_, that look in Maude's eyes…

I came to an abrupt decision and stood. I needed to talk to Anne. Just having someone to bounce my ideas off would be invaluable, and she might provide some intelligent additions of her own.

_You want to see her again._

I ignored the voice in the back of my mind and went to the door, opened it, and cautiously proceeded down the corridor to her bedroom door. I drew in a long, shaky breath and knocked.

_**Anne**_

"Practically nothing, then," I concluded when he had finished, smiling.

He looked curiously sheepish. "Well, in fact, part of the reason that I came here was my lack of ideas."

I raised my eyebrows. "I thought you were supposed to know everything."

He looked affronted. "I have never alleged that. In fact I always had to remind Watson…" His voice faded away, and I bowed my head in silence, leaving him to his grief for a moment.

He stirred again, and smiled apologetically. "I'm sorry."

"Don't worry about it."

There was an awkward pause.

"In the corridor, you seemed very… furtive." I don't know what made me say it, but it just slipped from my lips before I could stop it.

His smile broadened. "I have to confess that I was afraid that I might bump into George again." I opened my mouth to ask a question, but he continued. "Oh, no, I like him well enough. But he seems so exceptionally loquacious that I feared that beginning another conversation at this hour would perhaps see me trapped until the morning."

He cocked his head on one side, obviously wanting to know why I had asked. I stuttered and stammered. "I was just going to mention… If we need to have some kind of… um… secret meeting…" I flushed deeply again. "Well… That door there…" I pointed to it. "It leads through a small secret corridor to your room."

He raised his eyebrows. "Really? And what was the purpose of such a passageway?"

I shrugged. "My uncle's ancestors must have had a strange sense of humour – I've no doubt it was used in order to play pranks on any guests staying in the house."

His lips twitched. "Not for secret rendezvous, then?"

I blushed. "No – well… Maybe…"

"Anyway, it will be a useful escape route if any more unexpected visitors knock on your door in the middle of the night," he said cheerily, and I attempted a smile.

He frowned in concern. "Are you all right?"

"Yes… Just a bit tired…"

"Hm – you do look a bit peaky."

"No… I'm fine…" I looked away, feeling tears pricking my eyelids for no particular reason. Just the fact that someone actually _cared _was so momentous that it made me feel stupidly emotional. "You should be worrying about yourself. I saw – you didn't eat any dinner."

He smiled. "Don't worry about me." He gave me a long, piercing look. "Are you sure you're all right?"

"Yes!" I said impatiently, but it came out sounding a bit tearful. Before I knew what was happening, he had leaned forwards in his chair and taken my hand in his. Somehow it was immeasurably different from when he had examined it in his consulting room – then he had been professional, clinical, but now he was looking into my eyes like a _friend_.

"You need to take care of yourself," he said quietly, and his voice sounded sad.

I realised that my heart was beating far too fast, and I kept forgetting to breathe. He was too close – somehow his presence seemed to be overwhelming all my senses in the small room…

_**Holmes**_

I didn't know what had happened. One moment I had been enquiring after her health like a good _friend_, and the next minute the part of my brain that was controlled by Sherlock Holmes, the cold and logical genius, abandoned me to leave the part of my brain that was controlled by some adolescent dolt that I had only recently become acquainted with, to take over.

My hand, completely of its own accord, rose slowly towards her cheek. Somehow I had an overwhelming urge just to…

A knock at the door.

We both froze.

"Anne? Anne?"

It was Elsie's voice.

Anne leapt into action. She shot me a panicked look. "Quick!" she whispered.

I went straight for the little door she had previously indicated, but was dismayed to find that I was unable to open it. "It must be locked from my side," I whispered.

"Anne?" Elsie asked again, apparently puzzled. "Let me in!"

"Um… Quickly – in the wardrobe!" Anne ordered in an undertone.

"The wardrobe?" I whispered fiercely. "I'm six feet tall! I won't fit!"

"For God's sake, Anne…" The hammering on the door continued.

"I'm coming!" She glared at me. "Get in!"

She practically pushed me across the room, shoved me into the closet, and shut the doors firmly, nearly catching my fingers. I was able to observe her through a tiny crack between the doors, going to the door and opening it. Elsie's impatient face peered around it.

"Finally! What's the matter with you?"

"Nothing," she said, with extraordinary dignity. "What do you want?"

_**Anne**_

My heart was still beating uncomfortably fast, but I tried to hide it as best I could.

"What do I want? Nothing particularly – I didn't think it was a crime to pay your little sister a visit in her room, but apparently it is now!"

"No… Sorry… I was just reading – I wanted to finish my chapter."

"You were reading? You couldn't open the door because you were reading?"

I hoped my guilty blush wasn't spreading over my face. "Well, actually, I'd dozed off… The conference was quite exhausting, and I…"

"The conference?" Elsie asked innocently, sitting down on my bed. "Are you sure it isn't the sparkling company of your Mr. Stamford that's exhausted you?"

I flushed _again_, and forced myself not to glance at the wardrobe.

"You _do _like him!" she squeaked in delight. "Oh, Anne, I always knew we'd eventually get you married off!"

"Elsie!"

"For a while I thought that Mark Collingwood…"

"Elsie!" I was horribly conscious of Mr. Holmes hidden in my wardrobe, hearing every word of this acutely embarrassing conversation.

"But, well, he is _very _charming, and not at all bad looking either, though he's a little skinny for my tastes…"

"Oh, for goodness' sake!"

"Obviously very intelligent, and you can tell how he feels about you – he hasn't taken his eyes off you all night!"

I froze. "Really?"

She ignored me. "Then again, you've been just as bad – you need to act calm and collected and less as if you're in some kind of trance – you were sitting there practically drooling."

I cringed, wanting to sink into the ground. "Don't be ridiculous…"

"So," Elsie continued, pausing for breath. "Do you like him?"

"Well, of course I…"

"You know what I mean."

I took a deep breath. "Listen, Mr. Stamford is a very old friend, and nothing more. Of course I like him – he is a very… nice, and a very kind, man, but I don't feel romantically attracted to him."

That certainly sounded more calm and collected that the truth - _in fact I only met him this morning but he was _so _nice that now I can't even stop thinking about him and right now he is hiding in my wardrobe._

"Oh." Elsie looked exquisitely disappointed. "Maybe you're just in denial?" she suggested hopefully.

"For God's sake, Elsie!"

"Keep calm! I was just speculating…"

"Did you really only come here to discuss Mr. Stamford?" I said, still considerably flustered. "Or did you have any sensible motive?"

She sighed theatrically. "Well, as a matter of fact Tressilian said this had just arrived – posted through the letterbox by hand and addressed to you. He said he was sorry to disturb you, but he thought it might be important."

A chill ran down my spine. "Oh?" I said, trying not to sound too concerned. "A letter?"

_**Holmes**_

Truly, it was exceedingly uncomfortable in the wardrobe, but I was too fixated on observing the scene before me to care.

At first I was frustratingly unable to see Anne's expression, but then she shifted around slightly. Her dark hair was just a little mussed, that familiar pink blush creeping on to her pale cheeks, her eyes very bright.

"He's obviously very intelligent, and you can tell how he feels about you – he hasn't taken his eyes off you all night."

I stiffened, biting my lip. Had I been so obvious? Part of me wanted to close my ears and to somehow excuse myself from this conversation, but the other half longed to hear Anne's response.

"Really?"

She sounded quite nonchalant and unconcerned. My heart sank, and I wondered what I had been hoping for. Her to express her undying love, after having known me for barely a day?

"Then again, you've been just as bad – you need to act calm and collected and less as if you're in some kind of trance – you were sitting there practically drooling."

I froze, squinting at Anne's expression. She looked perfectly composed. "Don't be ridiculous."

I felt suddenly cold and hopeless and stupid, stooping double in a very small wardrobe, foolishly (and inappropriately) desiring a vulnerable young lady (a very young lady, I reminded myself cruelly) who had not the slightest interest in me. Crushing disappointment overwhelmed me.

"Listen," Anne was saying again. "Mr. Stamford is a very old friend, and nothing more. Of course I like him – he is a very… nice, and a very kind, man, but I don't feel romantically attracted to him."

I took some very small hope from the fact that she thought me kind, but "nice" was hardly a particularly adoring description for someone. And the "very old friend" was just another nail in my despairing coffin of disappointed… lust (I refused to refer to it as… well, love, I suppose). A perfectly ludicrous thought, in fact.

"Oh." Elsie sounded rather melancholy. "Maybe you're just in denial?" she probed.

"For God's sake, Elsie!"

I winced. Anne sounded so terribly adamant that I was fervently glad that I hadn't acted on my desire to touch her cheek – it would obviously have ended in acute embarrassment.

"Keep calm! I was just speculating…"

"Did you really only come here to discuss Mr. Stamford?" Anne continued, sounding impatient. "Or did you have any sensible motive?"

Elsie sighed. "Well, as a matter of fact Tressilian said this had just arrived – posted through the letterbox by hand and addressed to you. He said he was sorry to disturb you, but he thought it might be important."

Anne froze, as did I. "Oh. A letter?"

**Author's Note:**

First, a contrite apology for the gap between chapters as GCSE Science modules and English coursework have unfortunately taken up a great deal of my time…

Secondly, thank you for the reviews – the thought that me sitting here tapping away insanity on my laptop might possibly bring a little smile to someone else's face is a very humbling one!

To TimeGhost823 – I know killing off Watson was a very drastic step (and one that I was pretty unsure about – I am a great Watson fan!) but I'm so glad you thought it fitted!

Phew – enough notes for now (sorry as usual) and please please review to encourage me to continue!


	8. Chapter 8 Complications

_**Anne**_

I took the letter with only slightly shaking hands, and glanced nervously at the front of the envelope, hoping against hope…

My name was written on it in letters cut from a newspaper.

I swallowed painfully.

"Well… Thanks, Elsie – I guess I'll see you in the morning."

"Hm," she said non-committally, looking pointedly at the letter. It was obvious she was burning to know what was in it.

"Thank you, Elsie," I said loudly, not bothering to be subtle.

She looked slightly offended, but withdraw. "Good night."

As soon as I'd managed to get rid of her, I slumped back on to my bed. This wasn't fair. I was ridiculously tired and terribly stressed over what I was going to do about Mr. Holmes and now another _bloody _letter.

I suddenly remembered that my second problem was still hidden in the wardrobe behind me. "She's gone," I said belatedly, as Mr. Holmes clambered out. I couldn't help laughing at him, despite my downcast mood. He had a coat hanger sticking out of one of his jacket pockets, one of my shawls loosely draped about his head, and a great deal of dust clinging to his previously pristine clothes. He wrenched the shawl from his head, revealing his superbly ruffled hair, and then sneezed wretchedly as a fresh cloud of dust enveloped him.

"Are you all right? I'm terribly sorry – I thought I'd be able to get rid of her more quickly…"

"I am perfectly well, thank you," he said, with as much dignity as he could muster, and then ruined the effect by sneezing again. "Sorry, excuse me, I…"

"Would you like a handkerchief?" I asked, politely proffering one and still trying not to giggle.

"Thank you," he said courteously, taking it and sneezing several more times. "My greatest apologies, the dust…" He sneezed once more. Somehow it was a particularly endearing sound, like when a cat sneezes neatly and then looks appalled with itself.

He finally finished and then nodded to the letter. "Another of the same?"

I nodded, and passed it over to him. "You open it. I don't want to."

He raised his eyebrows. "Are you sure?"

I nodded again.

He very carefully slit the envelope open and extracted the letter. He looked at it and frowned, before handing it to me.

EVEN I KNOW THEY ALL HATE YOU.

I shrugged. "Strange. He or she seems to have resorted to trying to depress me into fleeing the country."

Mr. Holmes snorted. "Unlikely. Who do you think he means by 'they'?"

I frowned. "I can only presume my family. But I don't think they hate me." I stopped. The thought that I didn't even know whether my own family hated me or not was a rather sobering one.

He gave a lopsided smile, though he looked strangely sad at the same time. "I don't hate you."

"Thanks," I said quietly. "That's good to know."

He put a cautious but comforting hand on my shoulder. "I promise you, Miss Chantrey, I will do everything in my power to…"

I waved him away. "I'm already grateful. But if you can get to the bottom of this…" I frowned at the note again. "I suppose there's no point checking for fingerprints?"

Mr. Holmes shifted away from me slightly and sighed. "Probably not. Our mystery letter-writer seems annoyingly consistent."

"This one was hand-delivered," I reminded him.

He frowned again. "Yes… I wonder…"

"What?"

"Oh… nothing…"

He stood. "I had better get back to bed. Sorry for disturbing you." He was looking particularly introverted and sad suddenly – I wondered what was the matter.

"Oh, no, it's been a pleasure…"

I stood to show him out – the gesture felt curiously formal. "Good night," he said quietly, inclining his head to me.

"Good night," I murmured back.

"Sleep well," he said, as I closed the door.

_**Holmes**_

_I was running, running as fast I could, but I could sense him following me. Moriarty. I took the path towards the waterfall, glancing behind me, with the fearful knowledge that he was catching up, and this time there would be no miraculous escape… My heart was beating almost painfully fast, and I was so exhausted that I could barely stay upright. I registered vaguely that this was because I had been running for hours, days, years, even. But now I could carry on no further. My legs burned with pain, every breath was a dagger in my lungs. My vision became foggy, but I could still hear the rush of the falls, feel the spray on my face. _

_ My legs collapsed, and I fell to the ground, hitting my chin hard on the muddy ground. My head spun. I felt sick. I could hear him behind me, laughing hideously, watching as I grovelled in the dirt. I rolled over in helpless supplication, knowing I was about to meet my doom._

_ But instead of Moriarty looming over me, it was Watson, blood trickling down his face, his head swathed in bandages, his once sparkling blue eyes now wide and staring, his arms reaching for me…_

_ I cried out, and tried to move away, but I was too weak. He moved towards me, and uttered, in a horrible, hoarse, gasping croak, "It's your fault, Holmes… It's all your fault…"_

_ "No… No… I didn't do it, I didn't do it…"_

_ "You let me go out that day," he hissed. "You could have stopped me. You could have come with me. Instead you just sat there, more interested in your stupid papers and your worthless clients than your old friend."_

_ "I'm sorry, I'm sorry…" I sobbed._

_ "It could have been you. It _should_ have been you. I didn't deserve to die. I didn't deserve to die…"_

_ He reached for me, and his mouth yawned wide… I screamed…_

I sat bolt upright in my bed, my heart beating wildly, my forehead clammy with sweat. With a rushing feeling of relief, I realised that it had all been a dream. A moment later nausea overwhelmed me, and I lunged for the chamber pot beneath my bed, retching uncontrollably.

Once I had finished, I was shaking all over, and my head was aching fiercely again. I felt cold and weak and empty. I shuddered and wiped my mouth.

Trembling, I got to my feet and went to my window – looking out I saw that it was just dawn. Although I glanced wistfully back at my bed, I knew that I would be unlikely to get back to sleep, and if I did my dreams would surely plague me.

Sighing, I turned from the window and began to hunt for some presentable clothes.

_**Anne**_

Maybe it had something to do with Mr. Holmes' words the previous night, but in fact I slept exceptionally well. I awoke curled up in a small warm ball under my quilts, the sunlight streaming through my thin curtains. I blinked contentedly and stretched, before catching sight of the time on the small clock on my wall. It was extremely late – in fact, I was more than an hour late for breakfast!

I scrambled clumsily out of bed and dressed as fast as I could, combing my hair roughly and cursing in a most unladylike manner as I tugged painfully at the knots. I took a moment to check my appearance in the looking glass before fleeing downstairs.

Of course, the breakfast room was long empty when I arrived, with George's, Maude's, Violet's and Elsie's places already cleared. However, another place at the head of the table (that had once been reserved for my uncle) was set, the dishes unused. I smiled. Evidently Mr. Holmes was an even later riser than myself.

I had just summoned the maid and requested some fresh toast to be made when he whose habits I had just been pondering walked in. His normally pale face was slightly flushed, and he looked serious, though did I fancy that a little light came to his eyes when he saw me?

"Miss Chantrey," he said politely, inclining his head, and taking his place at the other end of the table. "How did you sleep?"

"Very well, thank you."

He smiled. "Good."

"I have to confess," I said, a trifle nervously. "You appear to have arisen later than I expected."

He smiled. "In fact I got up some hours ago. I have walked to Rybury and back already this morning."

I gaped. "To Rybury and back? Why, it's more than five miles each way!"

He shrugged. "I'm a fast walker."

"Anyway, what was your purpose in going there, or were you merely partaking in a leisurely stroll?"

"I was investigating…" Mr. Holmes glanced around, as if to check that no one was eavesdropping on our conversation. "Whether that fire at your home was as innocent as you supposed."

"And?" I asked, intrigued.

"Well, by the looks of it, it could have been caused by a spark from the fire jumping to the rug…"

"Yes, I _stupidly_ forgot to put the grate in front of it..."

"Or it could just as easily have been arson," he continued seriously. "Judging by the size of your fireplace, I doubt you could have fitted in enough wood to cause a spark that travelled to the rug."

I raised my eyebrows. "And you worked this all out just by visiting my house?"

He shrugged. "It is a simple matter of probability."

"But what earthly motive would anyone have for forcing me out of my house?"

"To keep a closer eye on you, evidently."

"So you really think… You really think it's one of the family?" I asked in a hushed voice. At that moment the maid came in with the toast, so Mr. Holmes did not immediately reply. He politely refused the toast, but asked for some tea.

"Do you ever actually eat anything?" I asked curiously.

He smiled. "Of course. I am human. I had breakfast in Rybury."

"Ah," I said wisely. The maid departed and we continued our conversation.

"I know it may be hard for you to accept," Mr. Holmes continued. "But in many cases a close friend or family member is by far the most likely perpetrator of the crime."

I shook my head. "But I can't possibly imagine…" I bit my lip.

"The point is that you can imagine," Mr. Holmes said quietly. "But as for motive…"

I shrugged. "I don't see one."

"Me neither. But it must be here somewhere."

The maid came back with the tea, which he sipped gingerly before giving her a grateful smile. Again that stupid feeling of jealousy washed over me. I tried my hardest to ignore it.

"Well… Anyway…"

At that moment a cry of "Auntie Anne!" reached my ears and I turned to embrace my niece, Ruth.

"Good morning, angel," I replied, ruffling her blonde curls. "How are you?"

"Fine." She turned suddenly to Mr. Holmes. "I've been practising my ballet. D'you want to see?"

"Ruth! I don't think Mr. Ho… Mr. Stamford really wants to see…"

"Why doesn't he?" she whispered loudly in my ear, staring at him.

"I would love to see your ballet," Mr. Holmes said smoothly, and Ruth beamed at him.

"Watch this!"

She performed a less than grateful pirouette and then attempted a plié before jumping three times in the air and then curtsying. Mr. Holmes applauded. "Wonderful!" he said sincerely. "Do you want to be a ballerina when you grow up, then?"

"No!" Ruth said firmly. "I want to be a gardener."

"Oh…"

She turned her attention back to me and tilted her head on one side, staring at me. "What is it, Ruth?" I asked lightly.

"Nothing!" she said promptly, continuing to stare.

"Come on," I said, reaching for her and cuddling her close. "You can tell me. What is it? Do I have a pig nose today?" I made a face, and she giggled. "Or maybe my eyes are going crazy." I crossed my eyes, and she laughed so hard she nearly fell off my lap.

"Come on! Tell me!"

"All _right_," she complained. "I was thinking… if you meant to kill Granddad."

I blinked. "Sorry?"

"It doesn't matter if you're sorry," she said severely. "You shouldn't have done it." I saw Mr. Holmes stiffen.

"No… I meant… I didn't hear what you said." I felt suddenly cold.

"I _said_, 'I was thinking if you meant to kill Granddad.' Did you?"

I took a deep breath. "Ruth, who told you that I killed Granddad?"

Her eyes widened. "Auntie. Well, Daddy was saying it as well. They said you killed him. Why did you do that? I thought you loved Granddad."

I felt sick. "Listen, Ruth, I did _not _kill Granddad, all right?"

Her face screwed up. "You did!"

Suddenly she had jumped off my lap and was screaming at me, stamping one little foot. "You killed him! You killed him! You killed him!"

With that, she ran out of the room.

_**Holmes**_

Anne looked seriously shaken. Part of me wanted desperately to go and comfort her, but I managed to res train myself.

"He knew… He knew…" she was whispering. "'Even I know they all hate you'…. Oh, God… They think I killed him… How could they even…?"

She suddenly stood, her face pale but determined. "I am going to sort this out once and for all. I won't be talked about behind closed doors as my own family speculate whether I'm a murderer or not."

And before I could stop her, in fact, before I could even utter a word, she had stormed out.

_**Anne**_

I was already brushing angry tears from my eyes when I walked straight into Violet, heading for the breakfast room. "Oh, Elsie, have you seen Ruth? I thought she'd gone up to see Maude, but then I saw her running past… She seems dreadfully upset…"

"Was it you?" I asked, my voice rough. "Do you think I killed your father?"

"Anne, what has got into you? What are talking about?" Violet's voice was perfectly calm and composed, and somehow it just made me angrier.

"Don't lie to me! Ruth's just told me about your nice little chats – apparently you all think I'm a murderer!"

Her moment's hesitation was all I needed to know the truth.

"Oh God… No… You actually thought I could have…"

"His medication had been tampered with!" Violet snapped.

My mouth gaped open. "And you think I did it?"

"You two had endless arguments!" she snarled. "You came into our home… You latched on to him like a parasite, you wanted this, you wanted that – and he gave you it all! Anything for his precious Annie! But you always wanted more, didn't you? And maybe one day when he dared to say "no" you got angry!"

"I can't believe you're even saying this!" My mind was spinning, I felt as if a terrible wound was tearing through my body. "And then you just invited me back into the house, did you?"

"We didn't have much choice, did we?" she fired back. "Anyway, imagine the disgrace it would bring on the family!"

I found I didn't have any words to say any more. I turned and ran, blinded by tears. My own family thought I was a murderer. My own _family_. The only family I had left and they did hate me, they did…

"Miss Chantrey?"

I had barely registered Mr. Holmes' presence when I ran straight into him. "What's the matter?" he asked, his voice concerned but comforting. Without knowing what I was doing I just hugged him, sobbing into his shoulder, burying my face in his jacket, clutching blindly at him. Gently, hesitantly, he encircled me in his warm arms.

I drew back for a second. "You're very… thin," I hiccuped stupidly. "You should… You should eat more…"

"Shush." He drew me close again and waited until my sobs subsided.

_**Holmes**_

Of course, I didn't like to see her upset. It fact, when she came around the corner crying I thought my heart would break. Her beautiful blue eyes (why did my brain insist on creating these idiotic descriptions?) were clouded with tears, and she was sobbing despairingly.

"What's the matter?" I asked quickly, though I had overhead the painful conversation. She continued sobbing. My instinctive reaction was to embrace her, and so I was lucky enough to have her blunder into my arms. And then, to my astonishment, embarrassment, amazement and delight, she hugged me.

For several seconds I just remained paralysed there, and then the true opportunity of the situation…

_What is wrong with me? She needs comforting, not an old and foolish and generally pathetic detective making a pass at her! Just keep chanting, "Platonic, platonic, platonic…"_

But she was actually sobbing into my shoulder now, so I decided that a nice _platonic _hug would be suitably comforting. And it was a truly heavenly feeling to hold her in my arms.

She jerked backwards, and my heart flipped. I really had overstepped the mark. And now she was going to run off and not speak to me again and I'd just have to go back to Baker Street and remain a lonely old man for…

"You're very thin," she choked. "You should… You should eat more…"

The rush of relief made me feel light-headed. "Shush," I said, and pulled her to my chest again. I hadn't experienced such physical closeness with another human being since… Since I couldn't remember.

Finally, her chest stopped jerking, and she drew back again, a little shame-faced and tear-stained, but with an attempt at a watery smile. "I'm sorry… It's just that…"

"I… um… Heard," I said quietly. "Your family think that…"

I cursed myself for my lack of tact as she wiped her tears fiercely again. "Yes, that's right. They think that I murdered my uncle."

"Is that him, up there?" I said suddenly. I had just caught sight of a painting of an elderly man on the wall opposite, with a curling grey beard and a scowl. Something in his face was very familiar, but I couldn't identify it…

She sniffed again and glanced at it. "Yes, that's him."

"Sorry," I said belatedly, turning my attention back to her. "So. What are we going to do?"

She took a deep shuddering breath. "Could we just… get out of here? I don't mind where we go. I just don't feel I want to stay here any more."

I smiled. "Absolutely no problem. I'll find a hansom… somehow. You go and pack your things."

I was rewarded with a dizzyingly beautiful, if a slightly watery, smile. "Thank you."

And then before my brain had a chance to recover, she had pattered up the stairs and was gone.

**Author's Note:**

I'm sure you're fed up of the various excuses by now but I'm going on a school trip to the Lake District tomorrow so no updates for at least a week, I'm afraid! Thank you for reading, hope you enjoyed it, and I expect a bucket-load of reviews when I get back :D


	9. Chapter 9 New Arrangements

**Author's Note:  
**Woo! Finally – Chapter 9! Thank you all so much for the reviews (they always bring a little smile to my heart!) and thank you I had a very nice time in the Lake District doing rock climbing and raft building and climbing up mountains and many other un-me-like activities!

Anyway – moving on… This chapter is just a tad bit longer, too, in the hope that it will compensate for my lateness, but WARNING it is a little gory at times (and I don't mean zombies chewing people's limbs off kind of gory, but more some very nasty family problems on Holmes' part and also implied drug taking and self harm).

There we go – I have now totally ruined the suspense of the chapter – ah well… Enjoy!

_**Holmes**_

I helped her into the hansom, spoke quietly to the driver and then climbed in myself. None of the rest of the family came out to confront us, so I presumed that Violet had told them of our abrupt exit. Anne still looked pale, and her face was tear-stained, but she also had an air of resolute determination about her as she sat neatly in the coach, her face set.

It must have been some time after we had reached the halfway point of our journey when she spoke. "Mr. Holmes… I need to apologise… I… employed you (for want of a better word) to solve a case for me, and I simply ended up dragging you into my petty family squabbles."

"There's no need to apologise," I said swiftly.

"I can't stop thinking about it… Violet said his medication had been tampered with, and only the family could ever have had access to that – he never even let the servants near it – it's just too horrible."

She hesitated. "If you will excuse me for asking… It just won't stop going around in my head – what they must all think of me…" She swallowed hard. "Could you... Could you just talk? What about your own family? I'm sure they cannot be as dysfunctional as mine."

I smiled weakly. "I think they are… were more so, if anything."

She backtracked immediately when she saw my expression. "I'm sorry… I never meant to intrude… It was most impolite of me…"

I raised my hand. "No – please don't apologise. It will pass the time, at least."

I took a deep breath, realising that I was about to come nearer to baring my soul with another human being than I had ever done before. "If you have read…" I swallowed painfully. "My colleague's accounts of my cases, then you will know that I have a brother seven years older than myself, Mycroft."

I glanced at her nervously, and found her face quiet and attentive, intelligent blue eyes focused on me intently.

"My father was in the army for many years, and he desired both my brother and I to follow him in that path. In more simple terms, in his eyes, we were both failures."

Anne's eyes were so gentle and so sad that I found I had the strength to go on, even when she spoke. "Mr. Holmes, there is honestly no need for you to feel you have to confess yourself to me in this way…"

I shook my head. "I want to go on."

"My childhood was a very lonely one. Mycroft spent endless hours occupied in his room with his books, and due to his being the elder child and also my father's favourite, he was exempted from the punishments I endured." I swallowed again.

"Sometimes I would be locked in my room for days, unable to even recall my crime, which was normally due to my inquisitive nature. And despite what I recall telling Watson upon one occasion, it was at these points that I developed my unusual skills in the art of deduction. With only a tiny attic window and the gap under my door to observe the world through, I trained myself to observe minute details through which I could understand what was occurring in the rest of the household. I could distinguish from the sound of my father's breathing whether a beating was likely, I could tell you the occupation of any man strolling past the house, pick out tiny differences in the layout of the home when I was let out. My deductions were confirmed by experimentation and research - namely tentative eavesdropping."

"My brother largely ignored my plight, largely because I think he was afraid of the retribution my father would surely bring down upon him should he protest. And then he was eventually sent away to boarding school – I had seven years to survive before I joined him there."

I breathed out slowly. Anne's eyes told me that I could carry on.

"With Mycroft gone, the frequency of my punishments increased, and so did my father's habit for drinking. This was both my worst enemy and my greatest saviour. For it provided rare chances for freedom, when my mother could come and release me from my prison as soon as my father had departed for the public house, from which he usually returned from in the early hours of the morning in an intoxicated stupor. My mother was too frightened and timid to face up to my father openly, but I think she too began to relish quietly defying him. It was she who taught me the violin. I would smuggle it back into my room and practise long into the night while my father snored, though I was forced to play very quietly so as not to wake him."

I turned to look out of the window, astonished and embarrassed to find tears clouding my eyes. "I should have known that my mother could only stand such treatment so long before she snapped. She had been a noble, if weak-willed woman, and my father's constant humiliations and degrading comments sapped her of much of her spirit, but what she had left was both fiercely (if silently) protective of me and my brother, and deeply ingrained with a consuming hate for the man who now made her life a living Hell."

I breathed out another shuddering breath. "It was only a week before I was due to leave for boarding school, and my father's drinking habits had worsened still further. As soon as he reached for the bottle, the alcohol not only cost him his mind, but although increased his violent tendencies. Two weeks previously I had come close to losing my life after he had beat me and pushed me down the stairs. I had crawled, battered and bruised, to the bathroom and then fallen unconscious into the tin bath the servants were preparing. When they found me I was moments away from drowning, apparently."

I felt cold and sick, but somehow it was as if the poisonous knowledge was slowly leaving me as I finally voiced it. I didn't know why I had started talking like this, but I knew I had to go on.

"That night… My father had been drinking worse than ever. And, tragically, he returned to the house an hour earlier than my mother and I had anticipated. We were sitting in the living room (which we were not usually allowed to enter without his permission), had lit the fire (which was expressly forbidden), and I was practising the violin that my mother had bought me with her tiny allowance which my father had intended for her to spend on household necessities."

I closed my eyes for a second and then continued.

"He was… beyond furious. I remember he smashed my violin against the wall, cursed my mother again and again. He shouted and screamed, called her a disgrace to the family, and my mother spat in his face. Then he began to hit her. I had known that he hit her, but I had never witnessed it. With all my foolish, misplaced, youthful bravery, I tried to save her. My father dealt me a blow that threw me to the other side of the room and then snatched the poker from the fire…"

_"You wanted fire, didn't you?" he snarled. His ruddy face was contorted with fury, spittle flying from his lips, dark eyes fathomless. All my eyes could see was the strip of metal he had snatched from the fireplace, glowing white hot at the end, and I could already feel it eating into my flesh. "You are a disgrace!" he bellowed, as I cowered, shaking and sobbing. "You've always been nothing but a embarrassment and a disappointment to us, you miserable little runt. And now you are going to pay!"_

"He was threatening to brand me with it," I heard my voice say, though all my eyes could see was the scene being played out in the living room of that house, more than twenty years ago.

_"No, Father, please, no, please…" I was sobbing and shuddering, backing away as much as I could. "No…"_

_ He lunged towards me, and at that moment he froze, the scene so extraordinary that it would have been ridiculous if it had not been so horrible. His mouth gaping open, a trickle of blood coming from his mouth. The poker dropped to the floor, where it sizzled on the carpet. And then I looked down and saw the ghastly red patch on his jacket spreading, spreading, spreading…_

"My mother came up behind him and stabbed him to death with a kitchen knife," I said, and Anne inhaled sharply. "They said at the inquest that he had thirty-four separate wounds."

"Mr. Holmes…" Anne's face was white and stricken with shame. "I didn't mean…"

I shook my head silently, and continued. "My mother was not hanged, on the grounds that my father's abuse had addled her mind, and that she had acted on pure instinct to save her child. Though the prosecution alleged that the attack had in fact been pre-meditated, albeit by a desperate and tormented woman. They sentenced her to life imprisonment in Bedlam, the insane asylum, where she died only six years later. I myself joined Mycroft at boarding school, where he never mentioned the incident."

There was a long silence. Anne's small hand reached for mine, and I took it hesitantly, unwilling to subject myself to more inevitable heartbreak. But the warmth of the human touch felt so delicious that I could not resist.

"I'm very sorry, Mr. Holmes," she said quietly. "I didn't mean for you to have to relive…"

"No," I interrupted. Guessing from her startled expression that I sounded blunt, I elaborated. "I am glad to have told… someone. I feel a great deal better for it." And it was true; I did, though some of the lazy, pleasurable warmth running through me might have had more to do with the little hand nestled in mine.

She looked shocked. "You have never told anyone before?"

I thought for merely a second. "No. I believe… Dr. Watson had some inkling that my family life was not a subject I cared to discuss, but he never inquired further into the matter."

Her heart-shaped face twisted slightly. "It would be a terrible thing to carry by oneself."

"I never think of it," I lied.

I suddenly realised that she had drawn a great deal closer to me in the carriage. I could feel the warmth of her body, which was heart-stoppingly close, and thrills of heat danced up my spine. And then a moment later, all I could see was her face – those deep, intent, consuming eyes, and those beautiful rosebud lips…

Before I knew what I was doing, I was drifting towards her, one of my hands floating to touch her hair. Her eyes fluttered closed and my heart began beating so fast that it was almost painful. I leaned towards her…

"Excuse me, sir?"

I jerked backwards so fast that I whacked my head painfully on the window. The driver was attempting to talk to me. Fiercely rubbing my head and burning with embarrassment, I stuck my head out of the window to talk to him. "Yes?" I snapped, somewhat irritably (though, I thought, fairly justifiably).

"Sorry, sir, but we're approaching London now, sir, and you didn't state a specific destination."

I groaned. "Just keep going. I'll need to talk to Miss Chantrey."

I ducked back inside the cab and glanced nervously at Anne.

_**Anne**_

My heart was still pumping wildly, but I'd managed to scrape the few strands of hair that Mr. Holmes' long fingers had dislodged back into my bun. I was struggling to think clearly. Would he have…? Surely he wouldn't have…?

Then again, he had just poured out the story of his life to me. Surely if he were willing to do that, then a kiss wouldn't be out of the question…? Even my thoughts were beginning to sound desperate.

He ducked back into the cab again, now looking even more mind-blowingly attractive with his hair slightly ruffled. He was bright red with embarrassment. "Erm… The driver was just wondering where he was going to drop us… I mean, you, off."

I shrugged, feeling suddenly tired. I glanced out of the window at the damp London streets. "I don't really know. I just need a cheap hotel room, really."

He looked worried. "I'm not sure I feel comfortable with you staying in some random hotel. I don't wish to be blunt, but your safety is of paramount importance, and it cannot be guaranteed in some seedy backstreet hostel."

I sighed. I wasn't sure whether to be overjoyed at his obvious concern for my welfare, or irritated at the loss of independence the damn letters had brought. "Where would you suggest, then?"

He was looking immensely nervous and hesitant. "I was wondering… If you don't think it's a good idea, then you only need to say the word… It's only a suggestion, and I wouldn't be offended in any way… If you felt uncomfortable, then…"

"Please, just tell me," I said quietly, forcing myself to look back at him. His sharp features were full of concern and there was a small crease of a frown on his normally smooth forehead.

He coughed awkwardly. "My rooms in Baker Street… Since… Um… Well, my point is that there is a spare room, which you could have use of, if you wished." He glanced at me quickly, and then, obviously spooked by my facial expression, attempted to backtrack immediately. "I mean… Like I said, it is only a suggestion, and I'm sure alternative accommodation…"

"I would be delighted to stay in Baker Street for as long as it takes for either this letter business to be sorted out, or for my cottage to be repaired," I said swiftly. "If that would be convenient for you?

Mr. Holmes flushed deep red. "It would be most convenient… I mean…"

I smiled. "Excellent."

He breathed out, visibly relieved, and gave me a small smile. It was as if a cloud had drifted aside and revealed a glimmer of sunlight, and I couldn't help smiling back instinctively.

It was barely half an hour before our hansom pulled up at 221B Baker Street. The home of the world's only non-official consulting detective, and now, (at least temporarily) my home also.

_**Anne**_

An hour later I had effectively settled in. I had been introduced to Mrs. Hudson, who despite obviously feeling the strains of having Mr. Holmes as a lodger was nevertheless welcoming and cheerful. I also observed that she was very curious as to the nature of my relationship with Mr. Holmes, and I suspected that some surreptitious matchmaking was inevitable. But having admitted me into the house only the previous day as a client, she apparently decided that Mr. Holmes and I were not already secretly engaged, and only shot me one or two wary looks.

I managed to eventually refuse Mr. Holmes' offer to give up his own room for my benefit, and was instead led upstairs to a small, comfortable bedroom overlooking a small rear yard. Mr. Holmes loitered nervously until I confirmed my approval of the arrangements; he then thankfully slunk back downstairs to his study.

I surveyed the room critically. It was certainly small, but despite the obvious signs that it had not been occupied for some time, it retained a cosy, homely feel. I felt as if I would have liked Dr. Watson, if I had ever met him. A warm, comforting presence seemed to linger there, his personality emphasised by the small collection of British Medical Journals that I discovered beneath the bed.

I sighed. I didn't know what to think – about anything, really. George, Violet, Elsie, Ruth, my uncle… Mr. Holmes…

Mr. Holmes. He was quite a bit older than me and obviously deeply troubled and vulnerable and terribly alone. But he was also charming and intelligent and good-looking and had an almost irresistibly attractive personality.

I sighed again and stood up. I needed a walk to clear my head. I rearranged my hair quickly in the looking glass, and then went downstairs again. When I entered the living room, Mr. Holmes was sitting at his desk, and by the looks of it, was analysing the envelope one of the anonymous letters had come in under a microscope. I watched for a moment, fascinated, and then coughed slightly to announce my presence. He glanced up and then leapt to his feet.

"Ah, Miss Chantrey… You're not having any problems, are you?"

"No," I said, swallowing a smile. "I was just thinking about going out for a quick stroll. Would you care to join me?"

He hesitated, and then half turned away.

"No, in fact, I have some important work to do…"

"In that case, I will see you later."

He nodded absently, and then suddenly his features froze.

"Mr. Holmes?" I asked quietly. "Are you all right? You look… unwell…"

Sickeningly slowly, he turned his head back towards me, his eyes fixed on a point just above my head. I turned around, half-expecting to see someone there. There was no one. I turned back to Mr. Holmes – his face was white, his eyes glassy and unseeing.

"Watson…" he whispered.

_**Holmes**_

He was there – he was _there_ – just as he had been on that fateful day, standing by the door, holding the letter that he had wanted to post.

"Just off on a quick stroll, Holmes," he said cheerfully. My voice seemed to have caught in my throat. "Would you care to join me?"

Upon receiving no response from my gasping mouth, he turned to go. "I'll see you later."

He glanced back, his large, friendly face concerned, and it was then that I saw the blood, the bandages swathing his head, oh God, the _blood_… His eyes were no longer bright blue and sparkling with life, but dull and lacklustre, looking at me accusingly, his head lolling.

I heard a voice that didn't seem to belong to me murmur something, and then blackness closed above my head.

_**Anne**_

His legs trembled and gave way; he collapsed like a marionette whose strings had been cut, knocking over a small table and a tray of tea and cakes that Mrs. Hudson had presumably just brought up. He lay there perfectly still, his face dead white, his eyes closed.

A second later, pattering footsteps on the stairs announced the return of his landlady, presumably to enquire as to the cause of the large crash. I heard her reach the doorway behind me, and heard a soft gasp of horror as she saw him out cold. I was suddenly released from my temporary paralysis and as one we rushed to his side. Mrs. Hudson tenderly lifted his head as I first moved the remains of the milk jug from the spot and then fetched cushions to support his head. He was obviously still breathing, his chest rising and falling slightly, whispery breaths issuing from his lips.

Having unbuttoned his shirt collar to allows him to breathe more easily, I put my hand on his sleeve to draw it up to check his pulse, but Mrs. Hudson put her hand on mine and shook her head decisively.

"I'm only checking his pulse!" I said irritably, and pulling away from her hand and her murmured protests, I pulled up the sleeve.

I felt instantly nauseous. For one thing, his arm was impossibly, disgustingly thin, barely more than white skin cloaking the bones. And then there were the dozens of pink-white scars that adorned the meagre flesh, some long healed, others barely scabbed-over cuts that were still weeping. Rough, dirty bandages covered his wrist. I drew the soiled fabric back gingerly, and blanched. A horrible, open wound, lined with pus, apparently caused by someone slashing at the wrist with a penknife or a similar instrument.

I swallowed hard and forced myself to look again at the arm. The scars, although the most noticeable marks, were not the only ones. Puncture marks, running all the way up the arm, again, some half-healed, others looking badly inflamed.

"What drugs does he take?" I asked Mrs. Hudson sharply, still feeling sick, my head swimming.

She hung her head, as if ashamed of her master's vice. "Cocaine or morphine, ma'am. A seven percent solution, usually."

I exhaled slowly, looking at this apparently normal but inwardly deeply scarred human being. "And when was the last time he ate anything?" Now I came to think of it, I couldn't remember having seen him eat properly at all since I met him. I recalled him picking at his dinner, and assuring me he had already taken his breakfast in Rybury that morning…

She shook her head. "I don't know, miss."

"How can you not know?" I asked sharply, and then swallowed painfully. "Sorry… I only meant…"

"He pretends to eat his meals, miss, but I know he often don't – he packages it up and has it sent to the street kids – his Baker Street Irregulars, he calls them."

I swallowed again. "All right. We need to see to these wounds, anyway – the infection could be very dangerous1. Could you please fetch me some hot water, bandages (or just clean cloths), blankets, and some iodine2, please?"

She bustled off, and I took a deep breath before pulling up Mr. Holmes' other sleeve. His right arm (thank God) wasn't so bad – presumably he hadn't been able to inflict the same damage as effectively with his non-dominant hand.

Mrs. Hudson was soon back with my requested items, and I set to cleaning and bandaging. Thank the Lord he was unconscious, or else the pain would have been intolerable.

Thankful for my basic (though practical) nurse training (one aspect of my life he had not been able to deduce out of me), I finally finished securing the last bandage, and sat back to examine my handiwork. Mr. Holmes still looked like a skeleton, but at least now he was a very clean and well-bandaged one. I reached for him to roll him over on to his side to give him a better airway, but recoiled at once at the feeling of his ribs. He had abandoned his jacket, and they felt so close to the surface that I could well imagine that all that separated me from them was a single sheet of skin.

"Shall I fetch the brandy?" Mrs. Hudson asked, hovering at my elbow.

"No – he'll come round in time," I said, praying for it to be true. "Putting more poison in him won't help."

Apparently offended, she withdrew.

I breathed out slowly, and still sitting on the floor, leaned back on the sofa, my eyes on Mr. Holmes' face, hoping desperately for signs of his returning to consciousness.

Finally, he stirred slightly, his hand reflexively clenching on the blanket I had draped over him, as if he were a small child. A small frown crossed his brow, and then his eyes fluttered open and met mine. Instantly, he jerked awake, and attempted to sit up.

"Miss Chantrey? What happened? I…"

"You collapsed!" I said angrily, pushing him back to the floor, my teeth clenched. I hadn't realised until now how terrified I was that he wasn't going to wake up. "What kind of a fool are you, not to have eaten for God knows how many days? When was the last time you ate – properly?"

"This morning… In Rybury…" he murmured, not meeting my eyes.

"Don't lie to me! I know you didn't eat this morning, and you hardly touched anything last night, either! When was the last time you ate a proper meal?"

He gave the tiniest of shrugs. "Wednesday?"

"But it's Monday today!" I wailed in despair.

He had the grace to look ashamed, but I had no intention of stopping. "You take drugs, you shamelessly poison your body, you… You abuse yourself…"

His head had fallen to the side, unable to meet my eyes, and I felt a surge of guilt. He seemed like a small child caught in wrongdoing, and I felt a pang to realise that maybe his father had shouted at him like this. There was a horrible, awkward silence.

"I'm sorry," I said quietly, and I reached out hesitantly to touch his freshly bandaged arm. "I didn't mean all of that. I was only worried about you."

"I know," he said softly.

For a few minutes we sat there in contented silence, and then he finally struggled to sit up, his back against the sofa, next to me. He gave a hoarse laugh.

"What is it?"

"To be honest, I think you might need to look after me more than the other way around."

I laughed quietly with him, and speculated on the fact that I would be perfectly happy to look after him for as long as he wanted me.

1 Not being an expert on Holmes' era, I don't know to what degree they were aware of infections and all that stuff. However, Ignaz Semmelweis (the guy who started the whole wash-your-hands-between-touching-a-corpse-and-delivering-a-baby fad) had already been around, so I reckon they were probably aware of it.

2 Used as an antiseptic.

**Author's Note:**

Thank you once again to everyone who reviewed, and please please please continue to do so so I know if I am kind of heading in the right direction with this…

Just a random side note, but the scene with Holmes fainting was originally intended to be around the third or fourth chapter but I decided it against it in the end and pasted in here instead as I thought it would work better if Anne and Holmes knew each other a little better at the time – what do you think?

Anyway, better go, but thank you so much for reading!


	10. Chapter 10 More Information

_**Anne**_

"So exactly what medication was he on?" Mr. Holmes asked, frowning fiercely and absent-mindedly pushing his delicious, un-eaten slice of ham and egg pie (courtesy of Mrs. Hudson) around his plate.

"Less talking, more eating," I reminded him sternly.

He gave an exaggerate scowl and stared down at his plate, obviously more interested in talking about the case. He glanced up, giving me a pleading look. "Do I have to?" he whined, mimicking the voice of a small child, evidently teasing me about my authoritative teacher mind-set.

I smiled. For some reason, I quite liked it when he behaved like a petulant child. "Yes!" I replied severely. "And I don't care what you say about not being able to spare energy for digestion, or whatever it is – if you starve yourself that brain will be no use to you at all, digestion or no digestion!"

He rolled his eyes and then gave a sudden, unexpected grin. He hacked off a small piece of the pie, regarded it for a moment with a suspicious glare and then popped it into his mouth. He chewed briskly for a moment and then swallowed with an effort.

"There," he said, sounding bored. "Can I talk again, now?"

I tried to sigh disapprovingly, but ended up smiling. "Yes, I suppose."

He beamed. "Excellent! So?"

I gave in. "I'm not sure exactly what medication he was on, to be honest. He had a heart condition – that's all I know. He was a very private man, you see."

"Hm," he said, scowling still more. "It would be useful if we knew the name of the drug."

"Sorry," I said apologetically.

"Ah, no matter…" Vaguely, he cut another piece of pie, and ate that too. I allowed myself another small smile. "Tampered with…" he said thoughtfully. "Well, at least the motive for your uncle's death is clearer than that for your mysterious letters."

"Yes," I agreed. "Money seems the obvious choice. George, Violet and Elsie each get a third of a fairly massive estate." My brow creased. It was very hard considering your family members as possible murderers.

"Do not forget the obscure cousin in Cornwall," Mr. Holmes reminded me. "Though I think they would hardly have ample opportunity to fiddle with his medication from hundreds of miles away." He paused. "The money is the obvious motive, yes. Of course, not the only one, but I think that might possibly be a presumption we could fairly reasonably rely on."

"Now, the matter of this medication is, I think, a crucial one, especially in establishing means and opportunity." He paused for a moment. "It's a shame neither of us are doctors," he mused quietly. "Though, I have to say, your bandaging is first class."

"Thank you," I said, surprised.

He frowned. "Sorry, but would you mind fetching a box of British Medical Journals under the bed in your room… I would go, except… Well… I have a feeling that running up stairs would be not a sensible course of action at the present time."

"You're right, for once," I said firmly. "Stay here."

I dashed up the stairs to what had been Watson's room and grabbed the box of magazines. I staggered down the stairs with them again and Mr. Holmes greeted me with an exclamation of delight.

"Capital! Let's have a look!"

_**Holmes**_

As she pattered up the stairs again, I pondered my state of mind. I was still shaken by the hallucination of earlier, though the horror had already dulled slightly. But what I was even more aware of was the fact that right now, I was sitting with a smile on my face, for no apparent reason.

Well, evidently there was a reason.

Even when Watson had still been with me, I had been prone to sudden bouts of depression (or my "black moods" as he called them), and I would become introspective and withdraw for days on end, particularly when I had no case to solve, and even Watson's endless cheerful cajoling failed to enliven me. Life didn't seem worth living, sometimes. Despite every criminal we removed from the streets, every day more people were stolen from, blackmailed, and murdered. Watson's task was indeed a hopeless one, and now I felt a deep tug of regret that I had never properly thanked him for looking after me when I decided that death would be preferable to life, for dragging me outside, (even in the foulest weather) to see the outside world instead of lounging in the stuffy smoke-filled atmosphere of my rooms, for just being _there _– a steady, loyal, reliable presence.

I missed him.

But even if Anne, in some ways, could not match up to my old friend, in other aspects she was clearly… Superior was not the correct word, but it was the only one that sprang to mind. It seemed callous to compare them in such a way, but my mind could not resist.

Anne had just _something _about her, an unmistakeable but indefinable _joie de vivre _– she brightened up the room just by being it. I reflected on how in the last hour I had smiled (continuously), laughed (often), frowned in mock disapproval, play-acted and teased (too many times to be considered entirely professional).

And I had told her about me – more than I had ever told another human being before. The sense of joyous release was exhilarating – it made me feel reckless and giddy. And I felt none of the embarrassment and shame that I had previously predicted would be the result of such a declaration (the reason I had avoided the subject so determinedly). Instead I felt liberated. Anne had accepted everything I had said – she had not judged or pestered or questioned.

Not to mention the fact that she had certainly seen my various self-inflicted wounds (whether with a cocaine needle or a clumsy pen-knife), and instead of taking the logical course of action and fleeing from such an obviously emotionally damaged individual, she had stayed with me, bandaged my injuries, and then endeavoured to look after me.

I sighed quietly. Not falling for her was becoming increasingly difficult.

She returned with the box, and I smiled. "Capital! Let's have a look!"

I picked out one of them at random and skipped through the contents page quickly, discarding it when there was no mention of heart medication. With a theatrical sigh, Anne picked it up and replaced it neatly at the end of the box.

Thirty-three issues later, I struck gold. "Aha!" I said triumphantly, flicking to the correct page, before groaning in disgust.

"What is it?" Anne asked quickly.

"It's all in some kind of indecipherable medical terms," I complained "Tachycardia… Arrhythmia… It may as well be in Hebrew." I threw the magazine aside belligerently. "We need an expert."

An idea fluttered into my head, and I dived into my desk, surfacing with a pen, envelope and piece of notepaper. Anne leaned over curiously as I scribbled the note:

_Dr. Jackson,_

_ Medical information on case essential. Come at once._

_ Sherlock Holmes._

"A little blunt, maybe?" Anne queried.

I shrugged. "He'll live."

I scrawled his name on the envelope, stuffed the note inside, and sealed it. "Right, then. Watch and learn."

I shifted my chair to the window, stood up carefully, flung it open, and stuck my head out.

_**Anne**_

I watched, intrigued, as he gave a sharp, piercing whistle, and a small boy lounging about aimlessly in the street below started. Mr. Holmes frowned in concentration and whistled again. The boy aimlessly looked about, looking for the source of the sound.

"Over here!" Mr. Holmes called impatiently, and the filthy, freckled face squinted up at us.

"Whatcha want, Mister Holmes?"

"Fancy earning yourself a half crown?"

"Yeah!"

"Have you got a good memory?"

The small boy's face crinkled up, obviously weighing up the benefits and potential consequences of exaggerating his powers of recollection. A moment later, he decided to risk it.

"Yeah!"

"Excellent."

Mr. Holmes dropped the envelope neatly to the street. "Right, I want you to take that to Tommy Phelps – do you know him?"

"Yeah!"

It seemed to be his catchphrase.

"Give it to him, and ask him to take it to Dr. Jackson, in Harley Street, and then report back to me. When you've done that, come back here and I'll give you your money, understand?"

"Yeah!"

"Excellent."

The boy scampered away, and Mr. Holmes moved back from the window with a triumphant grin.

"Is he one of the Baker Street Irregulars?" I asked curiously.

Mr. Holmes shook his head, and sat back down in his chair. He looked a little pale, and I wondered if he had overexerted himself. "No, but I think he's a good candidate."

"Are you sure he won't just come back and ask for the money without handing over the letter?"

Mr. Holmes smiled. "I shouldn't think so. All the street urchins know me by reputation now – I think they think I'd hand them over to Scotland Yard if they tried to double-cross me, which is fairly useful."

"And… What was his name…? Wiggins? Is Wiggins still the chief of them?" I questioned eagerly.

Mr. Holmes hesitated and glanced away. "No – he left. I think he… He grew out of the whole thing. He got fed up of taking orders from a mad old man, I suppose."

"I'm sure he didn't think that!" I said teasingly.

"I think he did," he replied drily. "He told me that himself. We had a bit of a falling out."

I must have looked very surprised, because he gave a dry laugh and half turned away again. I felt guilty for having brought up the topic at all, and tried to change the subject.

"Erm…. So who is this Dr. Jackson?" I asked quickly, and he looked grateful for the distraction.

"An old colleague of Watson's," he said absently, prodding at the pie on his plate again. "Used to look after his practice when Watson and I went off on cases…" He glanced down again, swallowing, and I realised that my attempt to divert the conversation on to a subject he felt more comfortable discussing had severely backfired.

Conversation was fairly lacking for the next half an hour or so, though I was gratified to note that he did manage a few more mouthfuls of the pie. Then, quite suddenly, there came a knock on the door.

Mr. Holmes stood up suddenly to go and open it and staggered dangerously, clutching at a table for support. I rushed to help him, uncomfortably aware of the delicate sinews beneath my hand, and lowered him back into his chair. He gave a wan smile. "Sorry – it's ridiculous… I must have walked ten miles this morning, and now…"

"Maybe it's _because_ you walked ten miles that you're in this state!" I retorted, and went to open the door myself. A skinny, nervous-looking young man with red hair and glasses stood there, accompanied by the street urchin we had seen earlier, who also had a companion, apparently Tommy Phelps.

Mr. Holmes gave an exclamation of delight at the sight of them. "Excellent! Well done, boys!" He fumbled in his pocket and then deftly threw a coin to each of them. They scuttled away, and I showed Dr. Jackson in.

"Here… sit down… Oh…"

I attempted to clear up the pile of British Medical Journals liberally coating the third chair. "Hang on, I'll just take these back upstairs…"

I gathered them all into my hands and rose to go.

_**Holmes**_

"Shut that gawping mouth of yours, Jackson," I whispered irritably, watching him staring as Anne left the room.

"Mr. Holmes… I'd never have guessed you had such excellent taste – no offence intended, but I thought…"

"She's just a friend," I said quickly.

He raised his eyebrows. "Really?"

"Yes, really!" I hissed back angrily. "And don't talk about her like that!"

He looked shocked, but then Anne returned from her errand upstairs, and took the last seat with a reassuring smile in my direction. For a moment my brain froze, but then I remembered that I needed to pull myself together.

"Erm… Right…"

I turned to Jackson. "I… We need your help with a case."

"I guessed that from your note," he replied drily, and received a glare in return.

"There has been a suspicious death," I continued, shooting a glance at Anne. "And it is suspected that the victim's heart medication was tampered with."

"Really?" he asked eagerly. "Have you any suspects?"

"Apart from Miss Chantrey here," I said curtly. "No."

"Oh," he said, apparently bewildered.

"Anyway," I continued. "Being ignorant of all things medical, I thought you might be able to shed some light on the matter."

"I'll do my best," he said, obviously still recovering from the fact that I had named Anne as a suspect. "Um… Do you have any idea what kind of heart complaints he suffered from?"

Anne's brow was furrowed. "I'm not sure… I know that for a while he was tired and breathless a great deal of the time, and he had a bad chest – coughing and wheezing. Then the doctor put him on the medication."

Jackson frowned too. "Sounds like heart failure to me. A great variety of medication could have been prescribed… Anyway, it would be difficult for an outsider to tamper with medication – many drugs are only available through prescription… Was the victim of sound mind?"

Anne nodded, still frowning. "Yes. He was a very sharp and intelligent man, even at the end."

Jackson nodded. "Then that eliminates the possibility of the killer manipulating him into overdosing – assuring him that he had not yet taken that day's dose, for example… I fear I am going to be of limited help - I presume that you have exhausted all other paths of investigation – asking the family doctor, maybe?"

"Since my own family think I killed him, I don't think we considered that as a viable option," Anne said smoothly, and I felt like applauding her bravery. "Ah… Well…" Jackson was looking more and more awkward. "Do you know if he was taking any other form of medication…? A herbal remedy, for example?"

Anne's eyes widened. "Yes!" She turned to me. "Violet used to buy this herbal stuff from a shop in the village – she was quite into that kind of thing for a while."

My brain leapt into overdrive. "A herbal remedy…"

Jackson's eyes and mine met. "Digoxin," I suggested.

"Sorry?" Anne asked, nonplussed.

"Digoxin is a drug used to help the heart beat more strongly and regularly," Jackson explained quickly. "But it is also found in abundance in common foxgloves – which could be quite easily (accidentally or otherwise) be added without suspicion to such a remedy. It is also known as digitalis and it could quite easily cause death – nausea, vomiting, hallucinations, headache, followed by tremors, convulsions, and deadly disturbances of the heart. Especially if the victim's health was also poor, even ingesting a small amount could be fatal."

I glanced across at Anne. She looked pale and pained, but determined.

"Thank you, Dr. Jackson," she said quietly. "How long would it take for such a poison to take effect?"

He shrugged. "That would vary depending on the dosage and the health of the victim."

"Would it be possible to introduce it into the food of the victim?"

I was amazed and impressed at how calm and matter of fact Anne's questions were.

Jackson wrinkled his nose. "Possibly. But the leaves have an extremely bitter taste, which might be detected by the victim. If the murderer wished to pass the death off as natural causes, he (or she) would be much better off adding the leaves to the herbal remedy, which would most likely taste bitter anyway."

"I think we have established already that the murderer is extremely intelligent," I commented drily. "Thank you for your help, Jackson."

Jackson nodded and stood. "Nice to meet you, Miss Chantrey."

He shook her hand, nodded to me, and left; Anne showed him out and then reclaimed her seat with a sigh. "Are you all right?" I asked quietly.

She nodded, and exhaled slowly. "Digitalis. I'd never even heard of it." She gave me a sidelong glance, and smiled. "You had. _Well up in belladonna, opium, and poisons generally._"

I rolled my eyes. "Have you memorised every fragment of…" I swallowed, willing myself to say the name. "Dr. Watson's sensational narratives?"

She smiled again, and my eyes were suddenly and inexplicably drawn to her lips. "Not _every _fragment, no. But I have glanced over them."

I laughed lightly, and then winced as the pain of the familiar headache burned at my temple. Anne noticed at once. "Are you all right?" she asked quickly.

"Fine… Just a headache…" I took a long sip of water from the glass on my desk. "Anyway, what do you think of this latest development?"

She exhaled and pursed her lips. "Violet's herbal remedy… Either someone is trying to frame her (slightly unsubtly, it must be said – though they probably doubted the digitalis would be discovered), or she is behaving in an unusually stupid way, or…"

"Or it's a smart double bluff on Violet's part," I finished for her. "I favour options one or three."

"Me too."

"Not that that brings us any closer to a solution," she concluded with a sigh. "Or to why someone is sending me those letters." Absent-mindedly, she picked up a pen and inscribed _herbal remedy?_ on it, before adding the word _opportunity? _I approved thoroughly of her tidy mind.

"No, the letters remain a mystery, as of yet… Although I was… wondering…" I had to stifle a yawn, and, of course, Anne noticed immediately.

"You're tired. You didn't sleep well, did you? No matter how fast a walker you are, to walk to Rybury and back (plus a little investigating) before breakfast, you must have got up pretty early."

"Yes…" I had to restrain another yawn. "I'm not exactly known for my regular sleeping habits…"

"Bad dreams?" she asked bluntly.

"Yes," I said, without thinking – she seemed to inspire unexpected honesty in me. She must have seen my embarrassed expression a second later, because she gave me a soothing smile. "Why feel awkward? We all have them from time to time."

I coughed nervously.

"You could always have a little nap," she suggested, the familiar glint in her eyes returning. "After all, you've eaten all your dinner."

I glanced down at my empty plate, rather surprised, despite myself, and then decided to call her bluff. "In fact, I think I will have a nap."

She looked a little surprised, but recovered in an instant to help me out of my chair (I hated feeling like an invalid, but I still felt too weak on my legs to be sure that I wouldn't fall over and make myself look like a complete fool). She assisted me to the sofa, upon which I sat down with a sigh of contentment. I felt more tired than I had realised.

I did not foresee her sitting on the sofa beside me, but the surprise was certainly not an unpleasant one. Seeing my startled expression, she smiled. "I've heard that going to sleep near another person can help prevent nightmares."

I flushed, but didn't feel able to refuse her invitation. "Goodnight, then," I said cheerfully, trying to hide how much her kindness meant to me. I don't think she believed that I actually would go to sleep, but I was going to prove her wrong.

I felt my head loll on to my shoulder, and my eyes close slowly. I could feel my breathing settle into a slow, steady rhythm; I could feel each muscle in my body relaxing. But most of all, I could feel the beautiful, comforting warmth of Anne's body beside me.

_**Holmes**_

I drifted slowly out of the most restful, luxurious sleep I had known for a long time. Somehow, I could tell that a significant amount of time had passed – perhaps several hours. A stupid smile had appeared on my face during that time, but I was loath to banish it.

My eyes floated open, and I turned over on the sofa, but, to my surprise, Anne was not there. Then again, she had probably gone upstairs to read or unpack, or had seven gone out.

I stretched and gave a contented sigh. I felt peaceful and happy. Finally, I forced myself to wake up properly and sat up straight, smothering another yawn.

Then I saw the note on the table. Frowning, I picked it up.

_Mr. Holmes,_

_ I am immensely sorry for my abrupt exit, but I have decided that my remaining at Baker Street is perhaps unsuitable. I did not wish to have to tell you this, but I am in fact engaged to a Mr Neville Isaacs, and I fear that your feelings for me are in danger of becoming more romantic that I believe is appropriate. I say none of this in jest, and I thank you for your help with my case. Do not attempt to follow me. I apologise for having involved you in this matter at all, though I remain,_

_ Yours faithfully,_

_ Miss Anne Chantrey._

I stopped dead. My first instinct was that this was some kind of bizarre joke. The second was that it was (obviously) a forgery. I lunged from the piece of paper earlier where she had written _herbal remedy _and _opportunity_ and eagerly compared the two.

My heart plummeted to my feet. The writing was the same – no doubt about it. The same small elegant 'e's, the same distinctive flicks on the tails of the 'y's.

I sat down again. I felt drained and ill. Suddenly, a third (and more terrible) idea occurred to me. What if she'd been kidnapped – forced to write this note, and then snatched by the mysterious letter-writer?

"Mrs. Hudson!" I bellowed, and she opened the door a moment later with a very disgruntled expression.

"What is it now, Mr. Holmes? And do you have to shout so?"

"Miss Chantrey – have you seen her?" I asked breathlessly.

"Yes, of course. She left about an hour ago."

"Was she alone?"

"Yes, she was," Mrs. Hudson replied, clearly intrigued at my anxious curiosity. "Though a nice young man came to see her not long before she left. Good looking, he was, and ever so polite. She was in a right hurry to go and meet him."

A hot wave of jealousy smothered me, and I inhaled sharply.

"Are you all right, Mr. Holmes?"

"Yes, of course! Erm…" I hesitated. "Did she take any luggage with her?" I inquired, attempting in vain to sound casual. My head was spinning.

"As a matter of fact, she did have a small bag with her, yes…"

"That will be all, Mrs. Hudson – thank you," I heard a voice say. It surely wasn't mine, because my mind had just frozen. Mrs. Hudson closed the door behind her, but I hardly noticed.

It was hardly surprising that she would have other men interested in her – and after all, having knowing her for only a day, I had no claim on her, but the thought of this Neville Isaacs being with her made me feel sick. The bewildered despair was already giving way to cold anger. I had trusted her, told her things that I had never told another human being before, and now she was just _gone_. Like smoke drifting through your fingers.

I didn't know why it hurt so much, but somehow the ache was unbearable. I rose shakily and took a bottle blindly from a small cupboard beside the bookcase. I unscrewed the lid and drank straight from the bottle, feeling the fiery liquid burn down my throat, accompanied several seconds afterwards by the hot fuzzy glow of the alcohol. I didn't know where my morocco case was, and I wasn't sure I would be able to get the tight bandages Anne had swathed me in off to inject the cocaine anyway, though that was what I was really craving. The sweet, delicious, thoughtless oblivion…

No – what I was really craving was her presence, just to see that smile…

I banished the thoughts from my mind and took another massive gulp of the brandy. I wanted my mind as numb as possible.

_**Anne**_

Twelve miles from Baker Street I was crouched, shivering in the cold and the dark, roughly gagged, the ropes at my wrists viciously chafing my skin, half sobbing with fear.

**Author's Note:**

The normal apologies for general lateness especially as it's not a particularly long chapter… World War III is erupting between Mum and Dad at the moment and the Inspiration Fairy has taken an unscheduled (and hopefully brief) holiday, so updates might be a little thin on the ground – sorry Though hopefully the drama will encourage me to write faster…

Also, I am pretty sure all the medical stuff in this chapter is pretty accurate (thanks to the geek curse bestowed on me by my doctor father…) but if it isn't I'm sorry – like my knowledge of Victorian hansom cabs, my experience of the taste of foxglove leaves is pretty limited!

Thank you as usual for the reviews – you actually have no idea I love them or how obsessively I check the site for new ones (when I should be doing something like WRITING THE NEXT CHAPTER) - so please please please tell me how you think I'm doing! Special thanks to Raptured Night for gloriously long comments

Hope you enjoyed, and thanks for reading!

PS. Dr. Jackson I believe was mentioned very briefly in _The Crooked Man _(lunges for massive tome of all Sherlock Holmes stories…) Ah, yes…

_ "If you could accompany me… you might be of considerable service..."_

_ "I should be delighted."_

_ "Could you go as far as Aldershot tomorrow?"_

_ "I have no doubt Jackson would take my practice."_

From this I surmised (perhaps incorrectly) that Jackson was a colleague of Watson's who had some kind of understanding of his and Holmes' relationship. So that's where he sprung from


	11. Chapter11 Abduction,Insanity,Realisation

_Two hours previously…_

_**Anne**_

I woke from a doze that I had never intended to take. I felt warm and well rested. Glancing to my left, I saw Mr. Holmes, curled up like a cat on his side of the sofa, his head resting on the arm, and a beatific smile dancing across his sharp features. I felt yet another warm surge of affection for him, and then realised with a jolt that I was curled up about his feet, my head on his knees.

Rather shocked at myself, but inwardly very much liking the idea of going back to sleep beside him, I decide to get up before I did anything foolish. I was very surprised that he, as such a private person, had even been able to fall asleep with someone else there, but I was deeply gratified that he felt relaxed enough with me to do that.

Sighing, I stood and stretched silently, careful not to wake him. That blissfully happy expression on his face was just too perfect to ruin. I had realised that I was not just attracted to him for the obvious reasons, but also that his friendship was something immensely precious, and maybe, even if he did not reciprocate my romantic feelings, I could remain his companion. Which would be far better than nothing.

A knock came on the door and I opened it quietly to reveal Mrs. Hudson. She took a glance at the sleeping Mr. Holmes, smiled slightly, and then beckoned me through into the hall to speak to me, closing the door behind me.

"There's a young man here to see you, Miss Chantrey," she said quietly.

"Hm?" I asked, puzzled and not particularly interested. There was only one man on my mind at the moment.

"Yes – I wouldn't have disturbed you, but he says it's urgent."

"All right," I said, trying to summon some enthusiasm, and followed her down the stairs. She nodded to me, and I opened the door. A young, good-looking man was standing there, with a wave of blond hair and a pleasant smile on his face.

"Miss Anne Chantrey?"

"Erm… yes…"

He reached forwards as if to shake my head, and that was when I felt something cold pressing into my neck, hidden from Mrs. Hudson by my body. I froze, and glanced down to see a revolver in his hand. My heart rate doubled.

_Get rid of her, _he mouthed at me, flicking his head towards Mrs. Hudson.

"We're fine here, thank you, Mrs. Hudson," I said curtly, my heart hammering, and Mrs. Hudson took the hint and left us alone.

He leaned towards me, his words icy. "Unless you want me to kill you now and then walk in there and take out your _friends _as well, you will do as I say – understood?"

I nodded weakly.

"You will go inside and pack your bags. Say nothing to anyone. If you speak I will know. Then meet me out here."

Shaking, I withdrew into the house, closing the door behind me. My heart was pounding. Silently, I went back upstairs to my room and began packing frantically, shoving my few possessions back into the little travelling case, the stupid tears already beginning to fall. I was helpless – I could do nothing to save Mr. Holmes, nor myself, and I couldn't bear the thought of bringing a gun-wielding maniac into the house where he was sleeping so peacefully, with that smile on his face…

I couldn't resist seeing that smile one last time. Snatching up my case, I stumbled down the steps from my room and into the sitting room. Mr. Holmes was still curled up on the sofa, but now that perfect brow was creased by a tiny frown line. Tears still pouring down my face, I leaned forwards numbly and touched my lips very gently to his forehead. His skin was warm and soft.

He stirred slightly in his sleep, and it may have been coincidence, but the little frown faded from his face. I rose quickly, stifling my sobs, and rushed from the room. I didn't know if I would ever see him again. I took comfort from the fact that if the man downstairs wanted to kill me, he would have had ample opportunity to do so already and so it seemed I was wanted alive. However, I was equally likely to be bundled into some ship and wake up hundreds (even thousands) of miles from home. Out of the country, like the _damn _letter writer had wanted in the first place. Only now he or she had sensed that I was not going to cooperate, they had taken matters into their own hands.

I opened the front door gingerly, not wanting to alert Mrs. Hudson, and found the gun at my head immediately.

"What did you say to him?" he snarled, and I drew in a shuddering breath before attempting to speak.

"Nothing… He was asleep…"

The gun was lowered cautiously. "We need to provide an explanation as to your disappearance. Here."

He handed me a pen and paper. "Write a note. I'll dictate it, so no funny business, understand?"

I nodded dumbly.

"How did you address him – Mr. Holmes, or Sherlock?"

I hesitated, and the gun was raised to my head again at once. "And tell me the truth, or I swear to God I'll pull this trigger and then head upstairs and kill him too."

"Mr. Holmes."

"Good. Write that."

I did so.

"Now… _I am immensely sorry for my abrupt exit, but I have decided that my remaining at Baker Street is perhaps unsuitable. I did not wish to have to tell you this, but I am in fact engaged to a Mr_..."

He hesitated, allowing me to catch up in my frantic scribbling.

"May I make a suggestion?" I asked.

"What would that be?" he asked nastily.

"That I put in a name of my own choosing here – someone that he has seen me with before – it might add credibility…"

He scowled for a moment before acquiescing. "I don't see what harm it can do. What is this man's name?"

"Neville Isaacs," I said promptly, my heart beating very fast.

"All right. _I am in fact engaged to a Mr. Neville Isaacs, and I fear that your feelings for me are in danger of becoming more romantic that I believe is appropriate. I say none of this in jest, and I thank you for your help with my case. Do not attempt to follow me. I apologise for having involved you in this matter at all, though I remain, yours faithfully, Miss Anne Chantrey._"

Writing such lies was repulsive, but I finally finished the letter. My companion perused it, frowning, and then gave a curt nod. "Now you will accompany me upstairs to leave this with him."

My mouth dropped upon. "What if you wake him...?"

"I will shoot him," he replied calmly. "It will be an excellent incentive for you to remain silent."

We slowly proceeded up the stairs, the gun at my back. I was just praying that Mrs. Hudson wouldn't emerge to see what was going on and get shot for her trouble. We entered the sitting room, and I felt another pang at the sight of a sleeping Mr. Holmes.

_Don't wake up, don't wake up, _I willed him.

"Put the note down," he whispered, his lips to my ear. I did so, shaking so hard that I was afraid I was going to knock something over. Finally, we inched out of the room again and downstairs. I felt sick and wobbly still, but if we could just get out of the house without Mrs. Hudson or Mr. Holmes being harmed, then I couldn't help feeling that I didn't care what happened to me.

Outside, my captor gave me a beaming smile, which in other circumstances I might have found charming. But now, having enjoyed Mr. Holmes' tragically brief, but beautifully sincere smiles, it held no allure for me. Not to mention that I generally failed to find men charming if they were pointing a gun at my head.

"That wasn't so hard, after all, was it?" he asked quietly.

"You _bastard_," I hissed back, and the horrible grin widened.

"Come on. We need to get a cab."

He gave a sharp whistle, and a brougham that had been parked a little down the road drew up, and the blond man smiled nastily again, making a show of letting me clamber in first. I did so, and started as I came face to face with a man wearing a black mask, only his eyes showing. The blinds were drawn on either side, and even as I hesitated, the blond man pushed me in and closed the door, the gun still pointed directly at my head.

"Stay quiet if you know what's good for you," he said menacingly, and I took the hint. The man in the mask growled something to the driver, and we started off. My heart was beating frantically with fear, my hands shaking. Even as we travelled, though, I tried to keep track of what turnings we took, as far as I could tell, with the outside world hidden. I didn't know London very well, but if only I had an idea…

About twenty minutes later, the cab stopped, and the blond man slowly lowered the gun. I wondered what was happening. The man in the mask furtively raised the blinds a little and nodded in satisfaction. I wondered whether we were already at our destination, but the blond man's unpleasant expression was enough to my heart rate accelerate again.

"Show her where we are, Tamen," the blond man said quietly.

The man with the mask appeared irritated that his identity (though undoubtedly a false one) had been revealed, but he obeyed and lifted the blind a fraction. I swallowed. We were in the middle of the countryside – not a house in sight. No one to hear me scream…

"What do you want?" I asked hoarsely. "I haven't got any money."

Blond-hair laughed. "We don't want money. Our employers deal with that. But we've got our orders. And the instructions do not involve you being conscious."

"No!" Terror shot through me. "No – please… wait…"

I was so busy backing away from him that when Tamen clamped the cloth over my mouth and nose for a moment I was too surprised to remember not to breathe. I inhaled jerkily and it was then that I recognised the horribly thick, cloying, sickly sweet scent of chloroform.

I kicked fiercely, struggling, biting, scratching and clawing for all I was worth, but Tamen was horrifyingly strong, and the exertion only made me need to breathe faster. I pulled at the cloth frantically, but I couldn't get it off. I could feel my mind fogging, and sobbed in frustration and desperation, feeling my arms turning to lead, still vaguely aware of Blond-hair's mocking laughter, even as a thick wall of nothing engulfed me and I passed out.

_**Anne**_

I came around very slowly. I felt nauseous and I had a terrible headache. Judging by the smell of vomit I had already thrown up once, and my head was throbbing. For a few seconds I couldn't remember what had happened, but then memory seeped back.

On the positive side, I was still alive. Woozy from the after-effects of the chloroform, with my brain feeling as if it were trying to push its way out of my skull, but still alive.

On the negative side, I was crouched, shivering in the cold and the dark, roughly gagged, the ropes at my wrists viciously chafing my skin and half sobbing with fear. I inhaled as best I could through the gag, and tried desperately to listen for any signs of human life.

There were none.

_**Lestrade**_

"He's gone mad, Mr. Lestrade," Mrs. Hudson said anxiously, trotting along at my elbow as I ascended the stairs. Sounds of smashing furniture and wild laughter came from upstairs, and I felt an unexpected chill.

"Don't worry, I'll deal with him," I said sternly, sounding braver than I felt. I hesitated. "It might be best if you stay there."

"Oh… Certainly…"

She hung back as I took a deep breath, my hand on the doorknob of Holmes' sitting room.

Close to two years ago now, a few months after Dr. Watson's death, Mr. Holmes had burst into the police station, blind drunk and on the edge of insanity. When he refused to stop smashing things I was forced to arrest him but of course he was later released in view of his previous services to the force. But now at the Yard the sergeants were prone to be a little wary of him, and although the word "genius" was often murmured admiringly, it was often accompanied by the word "troubled" or even "mad". I didn't know what had caused his current relapse, but all the same, I had to admit that I was a little nervous about confronting him.

I opened the door cautiously, and then ducked as a small chair was thrown at my head. A burst of insane laughter followed it, despite its failure to actually hit me.

"Lestrade…" Holmes lurched towards me, his words slurred, his grey eyes full of a burning light. "Fancy seeing you here… I suppose Mrs. Hudson sent you to break up the party?"

"Mr. Holmes," I said, in a controlled voice. "Please cease this behaviour now. You are upsetting Mrs. Hudson, destroying your property…"

"But I don't care any more!" he said, flinging his arms into the air. He sounded liberated. "Don't you understand?"

Then, with frightening suddenness, he leapt forwards and pulled what I recognised as Dr. Watson's service revolver from a drawer. A moment later it was pressed to the side of head, and he was laughing manically again.

"If I pulled this trigger now, then it would all go away! I don't care!"

"Mr. Holmes, put the gun down…"

He continued to laugh. "Oh, Lestrade, you don't understand, you don't understand at all…"

"Mr. Holmes…"

"By the way, have you seen my morocco case anywhere? I can't find it anywhere…"

Privately I thought that he was in a bad enough state as it was without the influence of the cocaine added, so I was thankful for the case's absence. "No I haven't," I said firmly. "Now, please put the gun down…"

He tossed it carelessly aside with a heavy sigh. "If I must…"

"What is this all about, Holmes?" I asked severely, extremely relieved that he was no longer holding the gun. "I… Well… I have very seldom seen you like this, and…"

Quite suddenly, he lay down on the floor, and began laughing again.

"Holmes? What the devil are you…?"

"The letter, Lestrade! The letter on the side!"

He pointed with one long finger, and, frowning, I went to retrieve the specified letter. I read it, frowning, feeling those burning silver eyes on me.

"I don't understand, Holmes… Who is this Anne Chantrey?"

"A client," he said softly, idly taking a cigarette from his pocket, lighting it, and then rolling it idly between his lips before sucking in a deep breath.

"Oh…" I said, confused, before the truth struck me. "Holmes – this is about a _woman_?"

"Your deductive powers know no bounds, Lestrade," he drawled sarcastically.

"No… It's just that…"

I paused. How could I tell him that I had always thought of him like a calculating machine, rather than a human being with such feelings? At least, I had done so until two years ago, when the sudden outpouring of emotion after Watson's death had deeply shocked me.

"So… Erm… I gather that there was a little more to your relationship than… Well…"

He shook his head in an exaggerated fashion, like a small child, scowling. "No, of course not… She is a… vulnerable young lady, eleven years my junior, and obviously she…"

"But you do have feelings for her?" I asked gently. I had never supposed that I would have a conversation like this with Holmes, and it was rather surreal.

"Evidently…" he slurred.

"So who is this Neville Isaacs?" I asked, waving the letter, and he froze.

_**Holmes**_

I had been quite happily observing the ceiling, which was a pursuit that I had never indulged in before, when Lestrade's words finally penetrated my brain. _Neville Isaacs…_

I leapt to my feet, and was surprised to find that I staggered. I had clearly had a little too much to drink. Which also meant that my brain was refusing to function properly.

"Holmes… What is it?"

I ignored Lestrade and tried desperately to think. I was sure that somewhere in the deep recesses of my brain, that name meant something, but I just couldn't think, my thoughts tumbling over each other…

"Goddamn it!" I snarled, hitting myself hard on the head in the hope of stimulating brain activity, but it didn't work.

"Good God, Holmes – don't hurt yourself…"

I stopped for a moment, trying frantically to organise my thoughts. Why the hell had I drunk so much damn brandy?

"Lestrade," I said, attempting to sound articulate and intelligent. "Pass me that red bottle on the shelf over there."

He frowned, picked up the bottle, and hesitated. "Holmes, this isn't…"

"If I wanted to kill myself, I would do so without your assistance," I assured him. "Pass it here."

I took the bottle, glared at it, and then pulled out the cork with my teeth and drained the contents. It tasted disgustingly bitter and I pulled a face.

"Holmes – what is that?" Lestrade asked curiously.

I pulled a face. "One of my own chemical experiments turned to a good use. It effectively neutralizes the effect of alcohol on the body. Clears the mind most efficaciously…."

The first wave of nausea washed over me.

"Good God, Holmes, if you marketed that stuff…"

"The recipe needs… tweaking… The side effects are rather… Unpleasant… Oh, God…"

I ran from the room to vomit, feeling the crushing bands of pain squeezing my skull. I gasped a few times, wiped my mouth, and returned to Lestrade. "Do you see what I mean?" I said weakly.

"Quite."

"Now…" I shook my head a little to clear it a bit more, and then reached for the note. "Neville Isaacs…"

With the numbing effects of both the initial shock and pain and also the alcohol removed, I looked at the words and felt my heart go cold.

_ I leaned back in the cab, looking at her thoughtfully. I smiled. "What about my alter ego, then? A name, first, to work with."_

_ She smiled back, and my heart beat faster._

_ "Maybe – Samuel?"_

_ I wrinkled my nose._

_ "Um… Neville?"_

_ "Isaac?"_

_ I scowled even harder. "That has to be (after Sherlock) my least favourite name in the world."_

"She left me a clue," I said stupidly. "A massive, glaringly obvious clue, and I missed it completely."

"Sorry?" Lestrade asked, nonplussed.

I turned to him. "We must get down to the Yard immediately. Anne Chantrey has been abducted."

_**Anne**_

As soon as the gag was removed, I jumped at the opportunity to use my voice again.

"What are you doing?" I asked the dark figure standing to my left sharply, struggling to turn and face him with my hands tied securely to the wall behind me. "How long are you going to keep me here?"

"As I said before, as long as it takes you to learn your lesson."

I recognised Blond-hair's voice.

"They'll find me, you know," I said, sounding braver than I felt. "If you let me go now…"

"Don't bother bargaining," he drawled softly. "I didn't come in here to negotiate."

"Then why…?"

I heard a mechanical grinding noise and gasped a moment later as the iron ring my wrists were bound to began to move up the wall. I had no choice but to move with it, and was soon dangling uncomfortably from the ceiling, my feet barely touching the wall, hoisted aloft by my wrists. I said nothing, but I couldn't help thinking that I wouldn't be able to last long in this position.

"No venomous comeback?" Blond-hair inquired. "I'm disappointed, I must confess. Anyway, you'll be enjoying our hospitality for at least another day or two, until you've got our client's message, so we may as well give you a friend to keep you company."

My heart clenched. _Please don't say they've got Holmes… Not Holmes, not Holmes…_

A moment later the stench of rotting flesh reached my nostrils and I coughed and gagged reflexively. "But then again, if I might correct myself," Blond-hair continued. "He's more an old friend of mine. Someone with whom I had a… falling out, let us say."

I had clenched my eyes shut, but when I opened them I shrieked in horror. A disgusting, decaying face was inches from mine, hanging from the ceiling in the same way that I was. The features were unrecognisable, the flesh crawling with maggots…

I looked away, afraid that I would vomit. "Please, please…" I managed to articulate.

Blond-hair laughed. "I'll see you in a few days – leave you two to get acquainted."

Then he slammed the door and left me in the darkness.

_**Holmes**_

"Mrs. Hudson, honestly – any description would be invaluable!"

She honestly looked as though she were trying her very best, and in other circumstances I might have felt guilty at my harsh treatment of her, but I was rather stressed. Lestrade and I had practically dragged her down to the Yard, whereupon Gregson and half a dozen other officers had attempted to discreetly (on the whole) take over the case. By the time we had extricated ourselves from their unwelcome assistance, I was painfully aware of the fact that the kidnappers might have had Anne for hours, completely at their mercy…

"He was good-looking… Blond…" Mrs. Hudson said doubtfully.

"Height?" I asked quickly.

"Not as tall as you, but taller than Mr. Lestrade, I suppose."

Lestrade rolled his eyes, but continued to rifle through the cabinet of records of past criminal cases.

"Approximate age?"

"About your age, maybe a little younger… Thirty?"

I glanced at Lestrade anxiously.

"I honestly don't know any more, Mr. Holmes…."

Lestrade froze, and I guessed that he had found a likely candidate. I leapt to his side at once. "Who is it?"

"Lawrence Windham… Convicted quite a few years back of kidnapping – he was part of a gang…"

"Carry on!" I urged him.

"They're mercenaries – they work for money from a client who doesn't want to do his own dirty work."

"I know what a mercenary is, Lestrade!"

"He was part of a gang of four – I can't remember the details exactly, but a young man was abducted, and in the four days it took the ransom to be paid, he was murdered."

I felt my blood run cold, and I understood Lestrade's hesitation.

"One of the gang hung for it, one turned informer (don't fancy his chances if they find him), and the other two got a few years each."

My heart was thudding unbearably fast. "Lestrade, it's our only lead. Where did they used to operate?"

**Author's Note:  
**Yeah, sorry about the rubbish ending

And also for the long wait and then the not very long or interesting update – but the Inspiration Fairy is still idling somewhere other than in my head

And (yet more bad news), I am going to Wales for 3 weeks tomorrow (in fact, in about 4 hours – should get some sleep!) with no internet, so although writing will continue, updates will not, unless I manage to find an internet café somewhere! Sorry

Anyway…

Raptured Night – thank you again for the lovely review and for the empathy

And mstef – how frustrating! I had thought about holding back the last paragraph to see if people would believe the worst of Anne, but decided against it in the end – I wish I had kept it in now just to observe people's reactions! Glad you enjoyed it though

OK then guys, better go… Hope you enjoyed this update, and please please please review to give me something to look forward to on arriving back from Wales :D


	12. Chapter 12 Rescue,Recovery,Revelations

_**Holmes**_

Squashed in a cab with Lestrade and six other policemen, all of whom were armed to the teeth, I drummed my fingers nervously on my knee, feeling rather useless and surplus to requirement. Not to mention the fact that I was craving my morocco case quite badly. For many years I had convinced myself that I had no addiction, but then I had always had a ready supply of the drug available. Now, without it, I was beginning to realise just how dependant on it I was, and silently thanked God for letting me misplace the damn stuff and forcing me to acknowledge the truth of the matter. Then again, I was pretty sure that Anne hadn't approved of it either…

Anne! How could I be thinking of my seven percent solution while her life was in danger? I was evidently attempting to distract myself from the matter in hand, and I forced myself to concentrate.

"Where is this abandoned warehouse, then?" I asked Lestrade quietly.

"Not far from the docks," was his reply. "Though there's four or five not far from each other – to be sure, we'll have a job finding the correct one, but we'll do our best."

I nodded absently.

Anne, alone and afraid.

Anne, injured or ill.

Anne, her body limp, eyes closed…

_No._

The hansom drew to a juddering stop and we leapt out. I saw immediately Lestrade's dilemma. The gaping mouths of five warehouses loomed before us, the yard between them criss-crossed with hundreds of cab tracks…

I stopped dead, pulled out my magnifying glass, and flung myself to the floor, ignoring the detrimental effects to my previously clean suit. A few of the policemen who had not witnessed my methods before began to titter like schoolchildren.

"Mr. Holmes?" Lestrade asked gently.

I raised my head. "One track is fresher than the others, and some of the dirt from the wheels (this coarser, darker grit) is identical to the grime outside Baker Street."

I crawled slowly forwards, following the track as best I could, noticing the slight imperfection in one of the tyres…

"This one," I said confidently, standing in front of a door that looked surprisingly sturdy, despite its decaying condition. I prayed I was right. Twilight was rapidly drawing in, and I feared that with each warehouse we found empty, the next would be harder to search.

Lestrade hesitated for a moment, and then nodded. "All right. But no more noise than is necessary, men – in case this isn't the right one we don't want to alert them to our presence." He glanced at me. "Mr. Holmes, it would probably be better if you stepped back."

As I protested, he said under his breath, "We'll tell you at once if we find Miss Chantrey."

I nodded, and stood aside as Lestrade's men produced a number of hefty looking tools with which they would hack through the door. My heart was thudding madly.

_What if we're too late? _the darker side of my mind whispered to me.

I ignored it.

"All right… Are we clear?" Lestrade asked quietly. "Three… two… one…"

Two of the most well built of the policemen charged forwards – Lestrade had clearly decided that manpower would be enough to shatter the doors, without the use of the tools, and he was proved right. I watched, feeling utterly helpless, as they rushed in. Please, please, please, let them not be too late…

My anxious thoughts tormented me. How could I let this happen? Maybe if I had not gone down to Rybury and stirred things up, then Anne would still be there, safe. Maybe if I hadn't been a complete _imbecile _and had grasped the childishly simple clue that Anne had left me, instead of drowning my sorrows, then…

I swallowed, feeling sick. I knew the self-torture was not helping, but I could not stop _thinking_…

There was shouting from inside, and I stood eagerly, hoping against hope…

Four of the policemen and Lestrade emerged again, flanking two men who were already handcuffed. One of them was blond and vaguely good-looking, the other's face was concealed by a black mask. I swallowed.

Lestrade triumphantly whipped off the mask. "Aha! Raymond Barnes, if I'm not mistaken. I have to say – it is nice to see you again, after so long. And I'm sure your cellmates will welcome you back with open arms. Evans, arrest them officially, would you?"

As Evans read out some pre-prepared spiel, there was a further cry from the depths of the warehouse.

"Sir? There's another door at the back, here, sir!"

Lestrade and I hurried over. Inside, it was surprisingly dark, despite the smashed windows and the half caved in roof. At the back of the building the two remaining constables were patiently smashing away at the door. As Lestrade and I approached them, my stomach flipped. There was the unmistakable stench of rotting human flesh. I felt sick.

"It can't be Miss Chantrey," Lestrade said promptly, practical as always. "They've only had her for a few hours or so. There's no way a body could rot that fast."

I nodded. "I was aware of that, Lestrade," I managed to say around the handkerchief I had placed over my mouth and nose in an attempt to avoid the smell.

"We're nearly through, sir…"

The door gave a groaning creak as the timbers gave way, and then sagged dejectedly. I pushed through, ignoring the harsh splinters, and rushed into the room.

The stench was even stronger here, and I immediately found the source. Reeling backwards, I stumbled away from a disgusting corpse, eerily suspended from the ceiling, the horribly grinning face turning slowly.

Then I saw her, just a few feet away, also dangling from the ceiling, and for a terrible second I thought she had been hanged. But then I was rushing forwards, overcome with relief, and supporting her weight as I fumbled with the bindings at her wrists. She was blindfolded and gagged, and to my distress, she recoiled at my touch, clearly fearful.

"It's all right… It's me."

She relaxed a little more, and I recognised the smell of chloroform. To my astonishment and embarrassment, tears pricked at my eyes. How could they have done this to her?

One of the policemen came to help me untie the ropes, and then she half slumped into my arms. I pulled the blindfold and gag free, and saw that she had burns around her lips from the anaesthetic. She reached out to embrace me, and I massaged her obviously painfully stiff arms.

"I want to get out of here," she murmured, and I held her to me, awkwardly encircling her in my arms, overcome with dizzy relief, relishing the feel of her heart beat against my chest. She was alive. Despite all my stupidity, she was alive.

I half-led, half-carried her out into the growing dusk. She rested her head on my chest; for a moment I stiffened, but then released that I found the sensation surprisingly pleasant. I felt a tingle run through my veins as I discovered that holding Anne Chantrey in my arms was even more enjoyable than the rush I experienced through the cocaine bottle.

Still dazed, I led her to the cab and she sat down, wincing and rubbing her arms.

One of the policemen came over to me. "Mr. Holmes, sir? Mr. Lestrade says we'll walk back to the Yard, sir, so you and the lady can take this cab back to your lodgings."

"Thank you," I said. "But there's something I have to do first."

I marched over to where two constables were still restraining Lawrence Windham. "Excuse me," I said politely, and then dealt him a smashing blow across the face. He staggered back, cursing and clutching at a bloody nose.

"I think you know what that was for," I snarled, as he spat blood on to the floor, before turning on my heel and marching away again. Now I thought about it, I had not indulged in such violence for a long time – not counting my drunken attempts to attack Mycroft after Watson's death, the last time must have been when I struck Killer Evans about the head with a pistol when he had shot Watson…

"Holmes?"

Lestrade had emerged from the warehouse, his own handkerchief over his face. "I reckon it's probably the third member of the gang – I think these two must have caught up on the informer, though he's too rotten to tell properly. And that room's practically bare, except for this handkerchief. I think it could tell us…"

"That's mine, Lestrade. I dropped it in there not five minutes ago."

He stopped. "Are you sure?"

"Well, it's has got the initials _SH _on it, if that helps," I said sweetly, taking it back. "Thank you."

"Ah well… What happened to your hand?" he asked suddenly, seeing my bloody knuckles. I grimaced and moved aside to show him Lawrence Windham's face. Lestrade groaned.

"Do you know how much extra paperwork this will cause?"

"Sorry," I said apologetically. "You're not arresting me, then?"

"I think I'll pass. Are you going back to Baker Street?"

"I'll tell them all what happened! You could have killed me, you bloody maniac!" Lawrence Windham interjected, as best as he could with a mouthful of blood.

"No one asked your opinion," Lestrade said sternly. "Anyway, who are they going to believe – you, with a wild accusation that a consulting detective who's worked for half the Royal families of Europe punched you in the mouth, or seven Scotland Yard coppers and said consulting detective, all of whom will swear that you fell on your own ugly face?"

Lestrade turned back to me. "Obviously, Miss Chantrey will have to be interviewed at some point, but that's not urgent. Get her home."

"Thank you," I said, genuinely grateful, but he only nodded, smiling, and raised his cap before beginning to give the two constables a lecture on how to deal with overexcited bystanders.

_**Anne**_

I woke very slowly. I was swathed in blankets, and felt deliciously warm. I was curled up on a soft surface, which felt strangely familiar… The sofa in Baker Street? Yes, I recognised the lingering scent of Mr. Holmes' tobacco and the comforting smell of his cologne. I felt the soothing coolness of the damp cloths that had been placed on my chafed wrists, smelt the familiar sharp tang of iodine. And I could hear the rhythmic breathing of another human being beside me; I sighed in lazy contentment.

With my slight movement a lock of hair fell across my face, and I was about to reach up to push it back when a long, warm, nimble finger gently pushed it back. My mind froze. A thin, slightly shaking hand stroked my cheek, gently smoothing back my hair. My instinctive reaction was to move into the touch, but I knew that would scare him off, so instead I lay perfectly still. A moment later, I heard a sigh, and the hand withdrew. I remembered vividly how I had kissed his forehead (it seemed so long ago), and how warm it had been…

I summoned the energy to open my eyes a little, and found myself looking into Mr. Holmes' beautiful, concerned face. I sighed contentedly, contemplating how mere hours ago I had been afraid that I would never see it again.

"Anne?" he asked quietly, clearing unsure whether I was properly awake.

I felt a blush of warmth blossom inside me at the use of my first name.

"What time is it?" I yawned.

He checked his watch. "A quarter past eight – it is Tuesday morning."

"Mmmm…" I stretched, and gave another yawn. "I must have fallen asleep in the cab."

"You did."

There was a brief silence, while I observed the sharp angles of his face and his pale, hawk-like profile. He looked worried, and I touched his arm. "Are you all right?"

He managed a smile. "Yes. Fine." He turned to face me again, his eyes softening. "What about you?"

"All right – I think." I gingerly touched my mouth – the skin was painful and still burning from the chloroform. "You got my clue, I see."

He gave a clipped, humourless laugh and looked away. "Yes. Eventually."

"Eventually?"

"Not before I'd drunk myself into an inebriated stupor," he snapped, evidently angry with himself. Seeing my shocked expression, he let out a shuddering breath and attempted a smile. "Luckily for you, Lestrade came along and managed to snap me out of it."

"It was rather a violent one, too, I gather," I remarked.

He cocked his head on one side. "How did you…?"

I smiled. "I merely applied your own methods." I pointed to the door. "There is a slight dent and a scratching of the paint that was assuredly not present there yesterday, and that chair displays similar symptoms, showing that at some point the latter was hurled across the room. There is also a fragment of glass beneath that bookcase, and the books upon it (which were perfectly ordered according to height yesterday), have been rearranged untidily, showing that they were also thrown across the room at one juncture… Also…"

He raised his hand in surrender, smiling. "I am impressed."

I hesitated. "But why?" I asked, confused. "Why were you…?"

Realisation hit me, followed closely by a strange delight. _He cared about me that much that a letter saying that I was engaged…? _ "Don't say it was that letter?"

He hung his head and gave another mirthless chuckle.

"Oh, Mr. Holmes… I didn't realise… I'm so sorry…"

"I presumed he'd made you write it," he said shortly. "I doubt you had much of a choice."

"Well… No…"

"Then don't be sorry."

"Don't be like that!" I replied, hurt. "I just wanted to apologise – I had no idea that it would affect you so strongly."

_But if it affected him so much, then surely…? _

"I know. Sorry." He laughed grimly. "You're lucky I couldn't find my cocaine bottle, or we might never have found you."

He must have noticed my suddenly deliberately nonchalant posture, for he turned on me at once. "You hid it!" he cried accusingly.

I smiled innocently. "Well…"

"You little devil!" he said, his good humour apparently restored. "Well – I must congratulate you on saving your own life, in that case, as it seems that Lady Luck had very little to do with the matter."

He hesitated. "I don't suppose…?"

"No," I said firmly. "You don't need the damn stuff, and if I'm going to be a guest in this house I won't tolerate it."

He smiled warmly, and I immediately found myself attempting to work out methods to produce such a smile again. "Actually, I am craving it less than I was earlier, so…"

"Earlier? You've not been up all night?"

He shrugged. "Pretty much."

"Mr. Holmes! All that work I do getting you well again, and then you…"

"You don't need to call me Mr. Holmes," he interrupted abruptly. "I don't particularly care for Sherlock, but just plain Holmes is less formal." Seeing my expression, he immediately faltered. "I mean, if you prefer…"

"Don't be ridiculous," I said firmly. "If you prefer Holmes, then I will quite happy to address you as such."

He smiled a little again, and nodded in agreement, before turning away to stare into space again. I watched him, trying to ignore the unpleasant memories sneaking up on me… The mysterious letter writer – still out there… My uncle's murderer – still unknown… And that horrible, horrible, dark room…

I shivered, and immediately Holmes' hand was on my shoulder. "Are you all right?"

"Yes – I'm perfectly…"

"Come on," he said gently. "And I thought I was a bad liar."

I managed a wan smile.

"Tell me about it, if you want. It might help."

I drew in a shuddering breath, and then told him what had happened, from when Mrs. Hudson came to fetch me, to when Holmes himself carried me to the cab, carefully omitting the tears and the kiss I had planted on his forehead.

When I had finished, he patted my shoulder in an absent-mindedly comforting way, but seemed troubled in some way.

"What is it?" I enquired.

"Oh, nothing…"

"Tell me!" I said irritably.

"Why didn't you come and get me?" he asked abruptly. "There was a gun in my desk – I could have…"

"You were asleep!" I retorted indignantly.

"So? You could have woken me!"

"You were still… weak and…" My excuses sounded flimsy and pathetic. "I didn't want you to get hurt!" I burst out.

"So instead you allowed yourself to be abducted! You could have been killed! Why couldn't you have slipped out the back door and got the police, for God's sake?"

"I didn't even know there was a back door… I didn't think…"

To my embarrassment, I was close to tears, and of course, Holmes noticed.

"Oh God, Anne – I'm so sorry… I asked you to try and make you feel better, and I just end up having a go at you... I was just very worried about you… I…"

He exhaled. "I deeply apologise."

He stood. "Maybe a little music would compensate for my callousness?"

I smiled. "I'm sure it would."

He found his violin within seconds, released it from its case, and after a few hesitant notes, launched into a vibrant, beautiful melody. This one was daring, fiery, the notes racing over one another, fighting for dominance, as a triumphant, joyful rhythm built and crescendoed into a waterfall of sound.

When it finished, I felt quite overwhelmed, and could only murmur an awed "thank you". He gave a shy smile, put the violin back in its case, and took his place in the chair by my side again.

"Did you enjoy that?"

"Oh… Holmes… It was…"

He laughed out loud at my speechlessness. "I wish I had a piano so you could retaliate."

I laughed, but the memory of playing in my uncle's house, when my whole family believed me to be a murderer, was a bittersweet one, and I was quickly silent.

"Are you hungry?" he asked suddenly. "I could ring for Mrs. Hudson…"

"Oh… Yes, if you could…"

He did so, and then resumed his seat. He seemed anxious not to leave my side even for a moment, which I found quite endearing (if a little comical). A few moments later, Mrs. Hudson's pattering footsteps could be heard on the stairs, and then her head poked around the door.

"What did you want, Mr. Holmes?"

"Ah, Mrs. Hudson, Anne and I were wondering about some breakfast?" he asked, and although I had sensed her annoyance as she asked the question, his charming smile melted through her irritation.

"Of course – in fact, it's been waiting for you for an hour or so – keeping warm, of course."

"Capital!"

"I'll bring it right up."

She gave me a benevolent smile, and I heard murmuring to herself as she went down the stairs again, "First name terms already – well, God bless them, I suppose…"

I laughed, but when Holmes turned to me, his face was stricken.

"Whatever is the matter?" I asked anxiously. "You're not… seeing things again?"

"You should have said something!"

"I'm sorry?"

"Here I am, blatantly calling you by your first name for the past hour, when you have never…"

I laughed. "Honestly – don't worry about it, Holmes – I quite like it, as a matter of fact…"

"But I…"

I half sat up on the sofa and grasped his shoulders. "Holmes. I'm being serious. It feels awkward you calling me Miss Chantrey all the time, anyway. Enough of the apologising."

He smiled shyly, and suddenly looked so much like a small boy that I thought my heart would break. "If you're certain…"

"I've never been more certain!" I said firmly. "Now – breakfast!"

I stood briefly and to my surprise and embarrassment the blood rushed from my head and for a moment blackness closed in around me. I felt Holmes' wiry arms about me, as he sat me back down on the sofa.

"Are you all right?" he asked solicitously.

"Oh yes, fine," I assured him. "Just a little dizzy – stupid – I sat up too quickly."

He looked relieved. "Excellent."

It was then that I realised how very close we were on the sofa, and how one of his arms was still around my waist, and how warm that arm was, and how I was blushing now (oh, why did I have to blush?) and how… Good God! He was moving closer to me, and I couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't think…

I could feel his warm breath on my cheek, feel my own heart hammering out of control, feel the sudden tremor in the arm that was around my waist, sense his nervousness, I could smell his delicious cologne, hear nothing but our own accelerated breathing, and all the time my eyes were fixed on his sharp, angular features, full of such a terrible loneliness that I wanted to fling my arms around him…

"Breakfast, my dears!"

Both of us snapped backwards as if we were attached to springs. Holmes leapt to his feet immediately to help Mrs. Hudson with the breakfast tray, and I could feel the blush already rising on my face. He murmured his thanks, and then set the tray down on the desk, hurriedly sweeping the residue of papers that resided there to the floor. I noticed that his face, too, was flushed.

"Here… Do you…?"

"I'm fine…"

I stood, and almost as an afterthought, took the tattiest of the blankets to wrap about my shoulders. Holmes courteously pulled out my chair for me, and I took my seat with a smile, albeit a rather confused one.

"Toast?"

"Mmm. Please."

"Could you pass the honey?"

"Oh, yes. Here."

"Thanks."

For some minutes this intermittent non-conversation continued, until I finally felt the need to break the silence.

"Anyway," I said. "What has happened to Watson's Holmes?"

"I'm sorry?"

He looked quite bewildered.

"That unreachable reasoning machine he wrote about?" I asked teasingly. "How did he come to be replaced by this tactful, courteous, apologetic young man whom I see before me?"

He laughed politely. "Hardly young."

I shrugged. "I beg to disagree. You are not much older than thirty."

He chucked quietly, and, I think, sadly. "Old enough."

I tried to steer the topic back in my direction. "Anyway…"  
"Yes, I think I understand your question now." He pushed his chair back a little from the table, and lit up a cigarette. He inhaled deeply and blew a thin stream of smoke from between pursed lips.

_**Holmes**_

"I think there are four reasons for the… catalogue of discrepancies that you see before you," I began. Her head was tilted on one side, like that of a bird, intelligent eyes watching me closely. My heart thudded erratically. Could I have imagined that moment on the sofa? For a second, I had thought of kissing her, of touching my lips to hers…

My brain attempted to discipline my imagination, and I coughed a little in an attempt to clear my head.

"Firstly, my friend Watson… He was, as you know, a romanticist, even a sensationalist. He was prone to exaggerations, whether it was in the bewilderment of the absurdly simple Scotland Yarders (then again, this is not always an inaccurate interpretation of them), in the power of my deductive reasoning and my intelligence…"

Anne made a little sound of protest, which I ignored.

"Or in the qualities that made me into that 'reasoning machine' you mentioned. As written by another person (albeit one who knows you better than any other human does, bar yourself), their interpretation of your personality is bound to be slightly different from yours. Just as I am sure I misread Watson on more than one occasion, I am sure that he mistook loneliness for standoffishness from time to time, or gentle mockery for arrogance."

I shrugged. "Then again, I have no doubt I behaved most despicably to him on several occasions." I was silent for a moment, thinking.

"And the second reason?" Anne prompted.

"Simply that I'm sure people enjoyed Watson's stories more if the hero (if I could be called that) was such a peculiar human being. My real, deeply flawed character (though admittedly he was faithful to the truth in the matter of my cocaine habits) was hardly enjoyable browsing for the casual reader. I recall that he failed to mention my various suicide attempts over the years, which would surely have been included in an accurate biography."

She looked a little shocked, but I continued.

"Thirdly, Watson's writing dealt primarily with my cases. Do you recall when we first met? What did you think of me then?"

She considered for a moment. "Well – that you were obviously very clever, and polite enough, and… Not _concerned_, exactly, but interested in a more… dispassionate way."

I clicked my fingers. "Exactly. And if I had just dealt with your case as I would with a…"

"Normal?" she suggested, with a twinkle in her eye.

"With a normal client, then you would never have seen…."

"The tactful, courteous, apologetic young man that lurks beneath the cold exterior?" she interjected.

I rolled my eyes. "If you insist on such fanciful terminology." She laughed prettily, and I had to fight to clear my head again.

"And the last reason is that… Well… I think that after Watson's death, I… mellowed, as it were. I had been in a happy, conceited little bubble of my own making, sustained by the admiration of my friend. And then, when he died… My world, my little bubble, burst, and I found I was friendless and alone…"

I swallowed hard.

"Sorry," Anne said quickly. "I shouldn't have…"

I laughed weakly. "Why must we constantly apologise to each other?"

"Surely it's better than never apologising?"

"You're probably right."

We finished our breakfast in silence, and then Anne gave me a knowing glance. "You've got something on your mind, haven't you? I know that look. You've figured something out."

"Well…" I hesitated. "It's not so much that I've figured it out, more that I might have found another piece of the puzzle. But it might be a shock to you."

"I'm prepared," she said promptly, taking another sip of tea and then sitting up straighter. I smiled, leaned back in my chair, and steepled my fingers.

"I wanted to talk to you about your uncle, and your mother and father."

"Mmm?"

"You said that your mother's family disowned her after her marriage to your father?"

"Yes."

"And that you were born two years later?"

"Yes."

"Right. Let us establish a timeline."

I picked a random piece of paper from the floor and began to scribble on it. "First, let's start with your uncle's marriage to your mother's sister. That is correct, is it not?"

"Yes."

I wrote it down.

"Then, George, Violet and Elsie are born."

"Yes."

"Three years after Elsie is born, your mother marries your father and is expelled from her home. Two years after that, you are born, and your mother dies giving birth to you. Six years later, your father is killed in an accident, and you go to live with your aunt's husband."

"Correct. But I don't know…"

"Why this is relevant? I think you will, in time." I hesitated. "When did your aunt die?"

"I'm not sure exactly… Perhaps a few years after Elsie was born?"

"But not before your parents were married?"

"I'm not sure, to be honest… The events must have been quite close together… But her death was definitely not down to foul play, if that is what you're thinking. She had a cancer of the brain."

I nodded and set down my pen. "Exact dates are not crucial. And your mother and your uncle… Were they close at all?"

She shrugged. "I don't know, really. My father never talked about my uncle, really, but my uncle did mention my mother fondly a few times."

"She was his sister-in-law, yes?"

"Yes."

"All right… And you were born about a year after your aunt's death?"

"I suppose… But I don't know exactly… And I don't know this relates to the letters, or to my uncle's death..."

"I said - don't worry about being exact. Also, do you know how your mother and father met?"

"They were childhood sweethearts, and they married as soon as they could do so without needing the consent of their parents, I think, as Mother's family didn't approve of the match."

"A devout young couple…" I murmured to myself. "Childhood sweethearts… And yet they don't have any children for two years?"

I glanced at Anne, who was still looking blank. "And do you know if your mother was an intelligent woman?" She looked weary of the questions. "Sorry for the interrogation, I just…"

"Yes. Father said she was the sharpest, most devious woman he had ever met, and so he loved her with all his heart." She smiled wistfully, thinking of the mother she had never known.

I breathed out slowly. Everything was clicking into place. It had taken me far longer than it would have done normally, but, then again, such a beautiful young lady did not normally distract me so abominably. "Do you recall the portrait of your uncle that I commented on in Holston Hall?"

She nodded slowly. "I do."

"Can you describe his physical appearance for me?"

She frowned slightly, evidently supposing that I was mocking her, but I nodded encouragingly and she began. "He had curly, grey hair… Blue eyes…" She shrugged. "I don't understand why you need to know – you saw the portrait for yourself."

"I'm just trying to help you realise." I hesitated. "When we there, I also saw a picture of your uncle as a very young man, and I am afraid that I indulged in a little robbery."

I went to my suitcase and extricated the delicate miniature. "Here."

I handed it to Anne, and she exclaimed at once, "Why, he looks like…"

She clapped her hand to her mouth, and I tactfully retrieved the portrait. She was watching me with frightened eyes. "He looks just like me," she faltered.

"And yet he was apparently no relation to you at all," I said gently.

"How…? I…"

"I believe this is the explanation," I said quietly. "Though I don't know whether it will justify or exacerbate your mother's doubtlessly dubious actions."

She nodded, eyes wide.

"Your mother, after years of being oppressed by her family, escapes, as it were, and marries her childhood sweetheart. She wants nothing more than to start a family, but after maybe a year or so of trying unsuccessfully to become pregnant, she comes to a terrible conclusion."

Anne gulped.

"I do not know how she managed it – perhaps alcohol was the deciding factor, but in any case, nine months later she died in giving birth to the daughter of her late _sister's_ husband, not her own. Perhaps she confessed your parentage to your uncle, or perhaps he guessed himself, but certainly he felt responsible enough for you, as his illegitimate child, to take you in when your 'father' died. Forgive me, but I thought it seemed odd for him to have employed a private tutor for you and allowed you to have your own career, when his own daughters have followed the traditional paths of marriage. Maybe he thought he had to make amends for the poverty you had endured for the first years of your life."

There were tears welling in Anne's eyes, and I dearly wished to embrace her, but forced myself to continue.

"And immediately a motive for these letters springs to light," I added gently. "You are heir to a fifth of Holston Hall."

"Which means that if I came forward as a blood relation, the rest of the family would lose out by a substantial amount of money," she said quietly.

I nodded. "I presume the will stipulates a certain period of time in which any relations can come forwards, or their share is redistributed among the other benefactors."

"Hence somebody wants me out of the way so they can keep the entirety of their share," Anne continued thoughtfully. I was deeply impressed with the way she could continue to think rationally despite the revelation that I had launched upon her. She breathed out slowly, and smiled faintly. "This has turned out to be rather a voyage of discovery, has it not?"

"It has," I replied fervently.

_Not to mention the discovery that I think I'm falling for you._

**Author's Note:**

Phew, another update, and once again I'm not _quite _happy with it so hope it's OK :S Then again, that could just be the perfectionist side of me talking

As you might have deduced, I have managed to get an Internet connection in Wales! Will wonders never cease? However, it is slower than a crippled snail sleep walking, so thanks for the recommendation movieexpert1978 and I will certainly check out your story as soon as I get back to Northants but right now uploading this story is about as much as my computer can stand!

To littlepieces – I hope Holmes' conversation with Anne is enough to draw something of a manhole cover over my plot hole Thank you for keeping me on my toes! As for why the gunman didn't go up in the first place, he was probably not keen on meeting a (possibly armed) Holmes, as moving in criminal circles, he would most likely know Holmes by reputation, injured or not! Plus, I just needed to have that little kiss on the forehead (I'm only human!).

To Raptured Night – thank you once again – glad you enjoyed Holmes drunk And thank you, I am having a great time in Wales – although the weather is mediocre at best and the house is completely overrun with cocker spaniel puppies and small cousins (who want me to give them piggyback rides at every opportunity), it is proving remarkably relaxing!

I really really really hope you enjoyed this update and that Anne's heritage wasn't too much of a completely unexpected plot-ness (I kept forgetting to introduce hints in the other chapters, but I think the painting was a bit of a clue!) So sorry if it was a bit of a jumbled mess! Please review – I need a bit of prodding to get going with the next one as I'm not quite sure how I can draw the pieces together without having some kind of mass shoot-out (then again… maybe that could work… hmm…)


	13. Chapter 13 Fitting Together The Pieces

_**Holmes**_

"Lestrade! How's it going?"

Lestrade turned around, and gave me a weak smile. I could sense that Anne was analysing him even as I did. Unshaven, dark circles under his eyes, his face gaunt and lined.

"No luck, then?"

He sighed. "No, I'm afraid not, Mr. Holmes. Raymond (or Tamen, as I believe he is known to his associates) has all the symptoms of having been punished for informing on his associates in the past – the primary one being that he has no tongue."

I was pleased that Anne made none of the silly affected noises that would be standard in one of the female sex, and I responded sardonically, "Congratulations, Lestrade. Well observed. And what about Lawrence Windham?"

Lestrade shook his head wearily. "No. He has categorically refused to tell us who employed him."

I suddenly released that I had not properly introduced him and Anne.

"Sorry… I forgot last night (though the circumstances were perhaps not appropriate…) Inspector Lestrade - Miss Anne Chantrey."

They shook hands, and I tried to distract myself from the fact that I was certain that Lestrade's eyes had lingered on Anne for a fraction of a second more than was strictly necessary.

_Keep calm, _I told myself sternly. _He's only curious about her because he saw how utterly ridiculously you went to pieces when you thought she'd left!_

"I am glad to see you in better health, Miss Chantrey," Lestrade said politely. "Have you given a statement yet?"

"Oh, yes, I have… To the sergeant at the front desk."

"Splendid, splendid…"

Lestrade seemed a little lost for the appropriate thing to say next. "Well… I suppose…"

"Ah, Lestrade, I meant to ask you about that point on the Abercrombie case that we were quibbling over?"

He looked a little puzzled, but I leaned close to him and whispered in his ear, "Has Lawrence Windham dropped his allegations?"

"What allegations?" Anne asked sharply.

Lestrade and I leapt away from one another, like naughty schoolboys caught in wrongdoing. "How did you…?" My thoughts untangled themselves. "Ah – lip-reading. But why…?"

"I'm a teacher, Holmes," she replied patiently, her eyes glittering. "Didn't you ever wonder how your professors knew exactly what you were whispering at the back of the classroom?"

Lestrade let out an unexpected guffaw. "You're a right pair, you are! Made for each other!"

Anne and I both froze, and she flushed. I coughed in embarrassment and glanced away.

Anne recovered first. "Anyway – what are these allegations?"

Her clear blue eyes glared at me accusingly.

"Well… When you were in the cab, last night, I had a bit of an… altercation with Lawrence Windham."

The disapproving look did not fade.

"I… erm… Hit him, I'm afraid," I confessed, a little shamefaced.

Anne rolled her eyes. "Very chivalrous, I'm sure, but was it really necessary?"

"No," I murmured, hanging my head, attempting to look the epitome of schoolboy contrition. She laughed.

"I think I would have done worse if I'd been able to get my hands on him," she admitted casually. She turned to Lestrade. "Well? Have these entirely foundless and unjust allegations been dropped by Mr. Windham?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, they have," Lestrade said proudly. "Nobody would have believed him, in any case."

I breathed a sigh of relief. Much as I had doubted that I would be prosecuted, attending a trial charged with assaulting an unarmed man would no doubt have been tedious and embarrassing. The subsequent notoriety (not that it didn't exist already) might have affected business, too.

"On that note, I think we had better leave you, Lestrade," I concluded, shaking his hand. "Thank you."

He smiled and nodded to Anne, and the two of us departed.

"Some sleep could very well be prescribed," Anne commented as we finally escaped the station, dodging Gregson, who seemed intent on informing me about a particularly simple forgery case.

I concurred. "Indeed, the poor man looks as though he hasn't rested for a week."

She laughed, and her eyes flashed. "I was talking about you, what with your gentlemanly all-night vigil."

I sighed theatrically, which unfortunately for me, turned into a yawn half way. "No time for that, I'm afraid. I shall be heading back to Rybury as soon as possible."

She raised her eyebrows. "Why should we go back there?"

"_I_ will go back there," I corrected her. "In order to inform your family that you have gone missing."

"But…"

"You were only rescued last night," I reminded her. "I doubt news of it would have reached the kidnappers' employer yet. But if I return there and carry on the charade, then…"

"You might be able to glean important information from their reactions," Anne finished, nodding. "Yes, it makes sense. But you're not going alone."

"My attempts to convince them of your predicament will be entirely wasted if you are standing beside me," I pointed out.

"Well, I will travel with you, at least. You could do with some company, I'm sure."

I quickly saw that there was no point in arguing, and reluctantly acquiesced. I would have preferred her to stay in the relatively safe haven of Baker Street until the whole matter had been sorted out, but then again, I suppose that had never been a particularly likely course of action for such a curious (not to mention stubborn) young woman.

So it came about that less than half an hour later we were already installed in our cab on the way to the train station, chatting pleasantly about nothing.

"Actually…" I forced myself to use her Christian name. "Actually, Anne, there was something that I was meaning to ask you."

"Yes?"

I suddenly realised how much she was reminding me of Watson, in some peculiar way. Her obstinate refusal to let me go alone, the way she had borne my various eccentricities with patient determination… Then again, Watson had never had quite the same level of sparkling intelligence in his eyes, or such a lovely face…

I shook myself out of my reverie. "I was wondering… Which of your family used to take care of your uncle most often? I mean, who made sure he took his medication… Gave him his meals if he were ill in bed?"  
Anne thought for a moment. "Maude, I suppose."

I nodded. "Interesting."

"Do you think it was her?"

"It is far too early to theorize," I retorted pompously. Then another question came to me. "Did any of the rest of your family have any chronic ailments – something they would have taken medication for?"

She shrugged and sighed. "What with my work, and the fact that I only really saw them at weekends (during the week I stayed in my cottage), I don't really know. I know George got very bad gout from time to time, and I think Maude had some kind of nervous illness which she took stuff for, but I can't really be sure."

I nodded thoughtfully.

_**Anne**_

We reached the station, purchased two return tickets, and managed to find an empty compartment on the train. We discussed our observations of the other passengers at the station (while Holmes smoked like a chimney), and compared where our deductions varied. I discovered that mine seemed to be more focused on facial expressions and body language, while Holmes preferred to use more concrete evidence – a walking stick, a tatty old coat.

As the journey wore on I found myself continually intrigued by Holmes' abrupt mood swings. One moment, he would be the almost cold, calculating detective, next, he would be laughing and joking with me, then he would be a mixture of the two. And sometimes I caught him shooting me a strange, surreptitious glance, his grey eyes unreadable.

After a while I recognised that the strain of staying up all night was beginning to tell on him – he had to stifle his yawns every few minutes (and then apologise for them) and his eyes were growing steadily less piercing as time wore on.

"You could just go to sleep, Holmes," I pointed out, after the sixth yawn.

He looked appalled. "I'm so sorry – I assure you, it's not the conversation, it's just that…"

"Honestly, just sleep," I said firmly. "I don't mind, and if you're going if be doing superhuman deduction later, then you need to rest."

He took quite a bit more persuasion, but eventually he consented. "Wake me up immediately if anything important occurs to you," he said severely, before lying down as best he could on his side of the compartment and taking off his jacket to drape over himself like a blanket.

I looked out of the window at the countryside rushing past so he could try and go sleep without my eyes on him. He resisted for nearly half an hour, but eventually I heard his breathing sink into a deep, regular rhythm. I turned to see his eyes finally closed, one hand grasping the edge of his jacket, a little half-smile on his lips. I thought of when I had last seen him asleep and fought to suppress a shudder.

Looking back at him, I tried to arrange my thoughts more clearly. I certainly found him attractive, and I enjoyed his company very much. I wasn't sure if there was anything more to my feelings than an instinctive desire for human company and affection. But surely he did not feel the same way? At times he seemed so distant and detached that I thought that such a thing was completely impossible, but there was the way that he had stroked back my hair when he thought I was asleep, and the funny little smiles he gave me sometimes…

I sighed, exasperated.

_**Holmes**_

_I opened my eyes. The compartment was empty. I struggled to sit up. "Anne? Anne?"_

_ I opened the door of the compartment, and saw with a chill that the entire train was completely empty and silent. I was alone. I felt cold and frightened. "Anne? Where are you? Anne!"_

_**Anne**_

He was moaning in his sleep.

"Anne… Anne…"

"I'm here," I said anxiously, bending over him. "Holmes?"

_**Holmes**_

_I walked slowly along the length of the train, my heart thudding hard. Somehow, I knew what was going to happen next, yet it didn't lessen my terror. I turned slowly and saw him – Moriarty. Exceptionally tall and thin, with a domed forehead, his terrible sunken eyes glaring at me…_

_ He began to walk slowly and purposefully towards me, and I found to my horror that I was rooted to the spot, unable to escape. I tried my utmost to move, but my legs had turned to jelly, and I could only manage a few haltering steps, and all the time he was coming towards me, a hideous glint in those eyes…_

_ I fell to my knees as he reached me, begging for mercy, but he merely laughed. "Sherlock Holmes…"_

_ Even as I watched, his face _changed _into that of Watson, those horrendously sad, accusing eyes observing me wistfully as I sobbed, pleading for my life. _

_ "You are pathetic," he said, his tone disgusted. "To think I used to admire you."_

_ "Please… Watson… John… Please…"_

_**Anne**_

His lips began to move slightly, and I noticed a slight frown crease his forehead. I bit my lip. I was unwilling to wake him, and yet…

_**Holmes**_

"_So sad and ridiculous," Watson continued, poking me with the stick he carried to assist him with the limp he had gained in Afghanistan. "Running around solving your stupid petty little crimes and then sinking back into your own pathetic morass of self pity. You never even cared about me, did you? Didn't even notice how I sacrificed everything for you, over the years, even my life, in the end!"_

_ I was trying desperately to crawl away, but Watson hit me hard over the knuckles with his stick, making me cry out. "I haven't finished. Are you happy now, without me? I expect you're having such fun, without stupid old Watson tying you down?"  
"It isn't like that…"_

_ "Leching after a vulnerable young woman? It was me who gave up my life last time – will it be her next? You can't stop yourself, can you? All that nonsense about grit in a sensitive instrument…"_

_ "No… No… Please…"_

_ "Telling her about your heartbreaking childhood, just to draw her in deeper. She deserves someone better – can you get that into your selfish head?"_

_ "Watson…"_

_ He spat at me. "I can't believe I used to idolise you. I thought you were a great man once, Holmes. Now I see what you are – a snivelling, weak, coward."_

_ The blood was dripping down his face, and then suddenly I was lying on the cobbles of a London street, and I could hear the frantic neighing of the horse as it raced towards Watson and I. I couldn't move; Watson was holding me in an iron grip, preventing me from running away… The horse's eyes were wild with panic and madness, froth about its lips… _

_**Anne**_

As I knelt beside him, he twisted strangely in his sleep and bared his teeth, his back arched. A dry sob escaped his lips. I hadn't wanted him to know that I'd seen him like this, but I couldn't hold off any more.

I leaned forwards and shook his arm sharply. "Holmes!"

The effect was immediate. Holmes sat bolt upright, eyes staring, his entire body shaking. He shoved past me, knocking me to the ground. As I scrambled upright again, I was just in time to hear the noise of running feet as Holmes bolted from the compartment like a scared rabbit. I heard the door of the lavatory further down the train slam shut.

I realised I too was shaking, and I had hit my mouth on the floor of the train. Taking a compact mirror from my handbag, I examined the damage. My lip was split. I prodded it gingerly, and winced. But mostly I was filled with concern for Holmes. He had looked so terrified that it was heartbreaking. For a moment his defences had been broken down, and I had seen a human being as kind and compassionate and _frightened_ as any other. I understood why it was easier for him to hide behind that cold emotionless mask.

A few minutes later Holmes staggered back into the compartment. He was shuddering still, his face pale and clammy. I guessed that he had been sick. "Anne…" he said quietly, and then glanced up at me. The last remnants of colour drained from his face as he saw my lip.

"Oh, God in Heaven," he moaned. "What have I done?"

"Don't exaggerate – it's nothing and I'm fine," I said quickly, touching it uncertainly with the back of my hand. "Are you all right?"

"Oh, Anne… I didn't mean to… You must believe me – I'm so sorry… I just… I was only half awake… I could never…"

"Honestly, there is nothing to complain about," I said sternly, taking a tissue from my pocket and quickly dabbing at the small cut. "I simply overbalanced. Please do not worry about it."

I shot him a sharp look. "Are you all right?" I repeated, in a softer tone. "Did you have a… bad dream?"

I knew I sounded like a mother comforting a small child as soon as the words were out of my mouth, and flushed. Holmes gave a dry (if shaky) laugh, and exhaled slowly. "Don't worry about me. I'm used to…"

He glanced away, stopping suddenly.

"Do you want to talk about it?" I asked quietly, and, without thinking, I placed a hand on his shoulder.

He gave me a very long look. His eyes seemed… wistful. I wished I could tell what he was thinking. Finally, reluctantly, his hand rose and gently pushed mine away. "I think maybe it is best if we don't."

I didn't know whether he was referring to talking about his dream or something to do with my hand on his shoulder.

_**Holmes**_

I breathed out slowly again, trying to collect myself, trying to ignore how much I wanted to pour out my dream to Anne, how much I wanted to have that comforting hand back on my shoulder.

I was frightened. The words of the dream Watson haunted me. _Will it be her next? _I couldn't let that happen – couldn't let her get close enough to get hurt…

It was blatantly clear that she _did_ deserve someone far better than me. She deserved someone her own age, someone who could support her through her troubles rather than burdening her with their own. Right now, she needed the practical detective whom she had expected to find when she arrived in Baker Street, not a ruined and besotted excuse for a man.

I would clear up this business with the letters and then return to London and 221B for good. I would try and get Watson out of my head. I would throw myself back into the one thing I was good at – cold hard detecting. I would find my old friends logic and reason again and cast away sentiment and emotion. I would embrace solitude and rationality.

I drew in another shuddering breath, closed my eyes and concentrated on who I had been for so many years. Sherlock Holmes – dispassionate, inhuman, friendless.

When I opened my eyes again, I felt cold.

_**Anne**_

He looked different, suddenly. The man who had listened to my case with an impassive, if politely interested, manner just a few days ago, was back again. "Is there a lodging house in the village where you can stay?" he asked.

I was bewildered by the change. "Erm… yes… Holmes – are you sure that you're all right - you seem…"

"I am quite fine, Miss Chantrey," he said, with a quick smile, patting his jacket pocket for his pipe. "Do you mind if I smoke?"

"No – not at all – but I thought we had decided that you would call me Anne?"

He ignored me. "Excellent!" He finally found and lit up the briar pipe, bit down hard on the stem of it, and puffed contentedly for the rest of the journey.

_**Holmes**_

When we arrived once more in Rybury, I bade Anne goodbye.

"I will see you perhaps tomorrow," I said. "And under _no circumstances_ are you to come to the house! Do you understand?"

She nodded dejectedly and turned away.

I knew that she was hurt and puzzled by my change in manner, but it would be better for her to accept that I was a complete cad now before…

I shook the ludicrous thoughts from my head and tried to concentrate on the matter at hand. I was finding it unexpectedly easy to retreat back into that impersonal, secretive hollow. It provided a protective barrier, a façade, a cold mask to shield me from the rest of the world.

I suddenly remembered that when I arrived in the house I would have assume the character of Benjamin Stamford that I had used on my last visit – charming, chatty, civilised Ben Stamford! I cursed under my breath. I felt anything but charming, chatty and civilised at the moment.

The cab finally drew up outside Holston Hall, and I got out, taking a moment to recall the mannerisms I had used when playing the part last time. Instinctively, my thoughts drifted back to Anne…

_No!_

_**Anne**_

Why did he have to insist on being so irritating?

_**Holmes**_

I marched decisively to the door and knocked sharply. The old butler opened it. "Yes, sir?" he asked respectfully.

"I need to speak to the family," I said, trying to sound urgent and upset. "I'm afraid I have some bad news."

"Certainly, sir, come in…"

I stepped quickly over the threshold and nearly crashed into Violet, who had come to the door to see who was there.

"Oh, Mr. Stamford! Sorry – I am merely a little surprised to see you… Is Anne…?"

"I'm afraid I have some bad news," I said gently, while trying to maintain the air of a man deeply worried for the safety of his friend. "She has been kidnapped."

Violet paled. "Are you sure? Are the police…?"

"Of course – they are searching for her now… Would you mind awfully…" I exaggerated my apologetic grimace. "Bringing the rest of the family together – so I do not have to go through it all several times?"

She was taken in by my phony concern, or at least was doing a sterling job of pretending to be so. "Of course, Mr. Stamford – go and sit in the drawing room if you wish… I shall fetch the others…"

I was ushered into the drawing room, where I took a seat shakily and declined the offer of a drink with a little affected shudder, saying that I was far too worried to feel like eating or drinking. As soon as Violet had left, I exhaled slowly and tried to concentrate. In the next few minutes, I would have to minutely observe every feature of the people about to join me in the drawing room, and from them, pick out a murderer. I was trying to recall what Anne had attempted to teach me about facial expressions and body language on the train when the rest of the family filed in.

Violet had obviously not told them what I wanted – their faces were puzzled but not overly concerned. I was surprised to see a young man following Elsie into the room – her fiancée William, I suspected, and Violet confirmed my suspicions a second later.

I surveyed him critically. Maybe it was merely Anne's opinion of him clouding my judgement, but I felt rather antagonistic towards him. He was short and stocky, with dark hair. His eyes were shifty and suspicious, his manner furtive. I watched his hand keep reflexively creeping to his jacket pocket, and frowned.

When they were all seated, I began.

"I am terribly sorry that I am the one to break the news, but I am afraid that Anne has been kidnapped."

My eyes took in the various expressions of the other occupants of the room, attempting to analyse exactly what I was seeing in their face – shock, concern, fear… So far, the culprit was holding his or her own well.

"Kidnapped?"  
"But… Where… How?"

"Do the police know who…?"

"When did they notice she was missing?"

"Has there been any ransom demand?"

I raised my hand for silence, and got it. My imperious manner was clearly rather effective. "Allow me to explain."

_**Anne**_

I sat on the chair in the small, dingy bedroom and sighed. I didn't want to be stuck here in some gloomy village inn while Holmes went out and tried to pick out a murderer from among my nearest and dearest, but obviously, considering his plan my presence would not be appreciated.

I bit my lip. How _frustrating _he was. Now he'd retreated back into his cold, intellectual shell, and I wasn't sure how I was going to coax him out again. I could hardly believe that he had poured out his deepest secrets to me and then suddenly belatedly decided (probably out of some kind of misplaced chivalry) that it would be better if he kept his distance.

_I _would have kept _my_ distance in the first place if he hadn't been so damn kind and attractive! And now he thought he could just order me about? Well, Watson might have been submissive enough to allow that to happen, but I sure as hell wasn't!

_**Holmes**_

Half an hour later, having given vague and distressed answers to all questions, I was alone in the drawing room.

I ruffled my hair in frustration. My brain wasn't _working_.

It was simple enough.

Five suspects.

George. Possible motives – a heavy drinker, so maybe debts? Doesn't come across as the scheming, intelligent type, but could be a good actor. Occasionally that hearty matter did seem a little overdone to be genuine. No doubt he would be angry if he found out Anne's true parentage – maybe he was trying to prevent scandal? But if so, why would he kill his father? Maybe he had found out the truth, and was then worried that his father would change his will in order to benefit Anne. Maybe he had felt trapped, cornered, and had struck out desperately, narrow-mindedly seeing no alternative. He seemed like the kind of person who would decide on a course of action and then refuse to waver from it, whatever the consequences.

Maude. Was that unintelligent demeanour just an act? I doubted it somehow, but anything was possible. If she were clever enough to engineer the digoxin in the herbal remedy, the anonymous letters, and a kidnapping that could not be traced back to her, faking being an obedient, subservient, half-witted wife could be child's play. Or she could be an accomplice. And if that curious dullness about her was _not_ acting, _was_ it engineered in some other way, and if so, by whom? But she had been looking after her father-in-law – perhaps she had the best opportunityto administer the poison?  
Violet. Two young children to look after, and highly strung, by Anne's account. Husband away in the army. Was it possible that he had abandoned her? – that would explain the desperation for income. Also she had provided the information we had…

_The information _we _had? _

The information _I_ had about the rumours circulating in the family concerning Anne's involvement in her father's demise – had that just been a blind? Had she somehow convinced Ruth to say those things? Wouldn't that have been too risky? And if so, why? Some kind of double bluff? Perhaps to unsettle Anne, to make her more likely to move away? The herbal remedy – was that an attempt by the murderer to frame her, or another double bluff? She was jealous of Elsie's freedom, I knew that much…

Elsie. Flighty. Maybe needed more funds for her expeditions abroad. She had delivered the fourth letter directly to Anne – had it really come via Tressilian, or not? But in which case, why would she draw attention to herself by handing it over? Maybe she wanted to be sure Anne got it, or was it yet another damn double bluff? But surely the funds she got from the will _anyway _would be enough to finance any trips she had planned? Then again, maybe not…

William. I hadn't really had long enough to observe him to gather all the information I would have liked, but I had enough. Something definitely _dark _about him, as Anne had said in the hansom on that first journey…

_Stop thinking about her!_

That trip to Manchester – had it been genuine? I could easily imagine him having criminal associates, but as Anne had said, the whole anonymous letters business was just too _subtle_, surely? Plus, until he married Elsie, he had no guarantee that he was going to get his hands on the money anyway, but murderers had murdered for slimmer chances than that.

I groaned. I couldn't make anything out of it. There was something nagging at me – something I'd missed. Something I'd noticed during that conversation just now with the family, _in this very room_. But my mind just couldn't find it – thoughts of Anne were distracting me abominably, for one thing…

I got up with a sigh, and in my head, something clicked into place.

"Yes!"

It was then that my assailant leapt at me from behind, tightened a rope around my neck to prevent my shouts for help, and pressed the cold barrel of a gun to my neck.

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes," a voice said. "I wondered how long it would take you to work it out."

**Author's Note:**

Ooh, the suspense!

Sorry for the rubbish cliffhanger ending, but I have been prodding and poking and avoiding writing this chapter all week and have concluded it is unlikely to improve. Truth be told, inspiration wells for irritating filler chapters have dried up and I want some ACTION!

Originally, my very rough plan for Chapter 13 (planning is quite a novel concept for me, really) was simply "revelation of culprit". I think I was planning to have the murderer just randomly turn up in Baker Street for no particular reason, confess all and then start shooting – possibly leading to TimeGhost823's "her kissing him after he gets shot saving her", which is still sounding a pretty appealing idea Then again, how severely shot should he be? Decisions, decisions… Anyway, being me, I eventually decided to go the long way round with a random train journey and a bizarre dream thrown into the mix.

Anyway, I want your SUSPICIONS. Any guesses as to which one did it? Note: I will be very annoyed if you all unfailing point out the correct one, proving the flimsiness of my plot, but equally annoyed if you all rule out the correct one because of some irritating mistake I've made somewhere down the line. Saying that, I did kind of pick out my choice at random, and the cases for all of them aren't completely unbelievable…

Oh, and Unidentifiable Alley-Cat – I have been watching the BBC series too! Tonight's episode was BRILLIANT – though I was expecting and dreading the cliffhanger! Watch it on iPlayer if you didn't catch it – oh the ending when covers mouth to prevent revelation of ending. What joy…

mstef – some fluff may be on the horizon, fear not!

Raptured Night – what can I say? Thank you as always! As for Wales, the weather has incredibly BRIGHTENED UP (in Wales, can you believe it?) so the last few days have been spent rockpooling (i.e, sitting in wet sand for hours with two three-year-olds and a net waiting for the monster fish they described to appear – which usually turns out to be about five centimetres long) and generally hours spent in the sea with the (freezing) WAVES and my oh-so-beautiful bodyboard :) And, of course, the resulting catastrophic sunburn (oh, it all comes from having a ginger father…)

Apologies for my even-worse-than-usual prattling, but I'm a bit hyped up even if it is 3.51am and I really ought to be in bed... Thank you thank you thank you everyone for reading and reviewing and for just being so lovely (someone pass me another coffee…)


	14. Chapter 14 Gunshots & Unforeseen Events

_**Holmes**_

"Don't yell for help," my captor advised. "If you do, then you'll be dead in ten seconds flat. A bullet in the brain generally has that effect. Understand?"

I nodded as best I could, the rope constricting my larynx.

"Good. Now sit down again. And don't try anything."

I did so, the gun still trained on me.

Elsie took her seat across the table from me, her finger on the trigger.

"William," I said quietly. "He's a compulsive gambler, isn't he?"

She snorted and glanced away. "I know you want me to ask how you know. Go on then, impress me."

"That furtive look he has – from looking surreptitiously to see what bets other people are making. The way he touches his hand to his breast pocket – checking if he still has money left in there. His hands…"

"That's enough," Elsie said quietly, and the gun rose a fraction, pointing directly at my face. "You talk too much."

"Tell me how it happened," I said carefully, shooting her a quick glance. I remembered how Watson had commented on how I had a way with women – of making them want to talk, to tell me what troubled them.

She let out a shuddering breath, and I understood that this was the first time she had ever done something like this – actually holding a man hostage with a gun. She had poisoned her father's medication, caused a fire that could have killed Anne, sent anonymous letters and hired a gang of kidnappers, but all these actions had been indirect. She was not used to being the one there at the moment of death, holding the murder weapon. Maybe I could use her discomfort to my advantage.

"William and I met several years ago, and fell in love at once. You must understand, Mr. Holmes, that his life means far more to than my own. I would die forty times over to save him."

I nodded as if I understood. Then again, maybe I was beginning to. I thanked God that Anne was not there with me, staring down the barrel of a gun.

"But he had problems. He owed a lot of people money. We travelled around for a while, trying to get away, but he just couldn't stop. He just amassed more and more debts."

Her face hardened. "And then I remembered my father – my miserable miser of a father lording it in his massive house back in England. I don't know exactly when the thought came into my head. I talked about it with William a good deal, but the original idea was mine."

She sighed. "We came on a visit. Originally I was intending to mess about with his heart medication – I didn't know exactly how – but then I thought of the herbal remedy he used to take. I suppose I did it that way because I was angry with Violet. She was always putting me down for not taking enough responsibility and going off gallivanting and having fun while other men died in war – whereas in reality William and I were constantly running for our lives. I'd read somewhere that foxgloves were poisonous, and there were some in the garden. I just snipped some up and popped them in. It was easy."

"But then…"

She nodded. "But then I realised that once his health started to deteriorate, Maude would surely notice and fetch the doctor. Either they might save him or, worse, the doctor might find the cause of his illness. So we realised we had to dumb Maude down a bit more – she was always mooning away acting so damn thick as it was that we didn't think anyone would notice. I put laudanum1 in that medicine stuff she took for her nerves. It was a big bottle – she's probably still taking it now. Anyway, that was enough to make her unaware anything was happening to Father."

She shrugged, and I felt a little chill at the callous disregard she had for human life. "And so he died. I knew the terms of the will – Father made no secret of it. One fourth of his estate. William and I worked it out. Enough to cover all his debts, and just enough for one more expedition – maybe to America. Then we'd be safe, and together."

"How did you get the stuff into the medication?"

"Did Anne show you the secret passage in your room?"

I nodded.

"Then you'll see how simple the whole thing was. There are twisting little passages all over this house. When I was a child, I spent many rainy summer days discovering them all. I just snuck in through the wardrobe (it has a false back) and added the foxglove leaves."

"But not everything went to plan, did it?"

She sighed. "William just wouldn't stop gambling. Even on the day Father died, he lost another fifty pounds."

"I had a friend…" I swallowed. "Who used to have a gambling problem. It was… very hard..."

_Don't antagonize her. Just stall for as long as you can and maybe you will see Anne again after all. _

Elsie nodded vaguely, biting her lip, clearly wanting to continue her story. "I think it might have been the day after he died – or maybe that very day. Maude had been with him, and we were talking about it. And then she was saying something vaguely about how proud he had been of all of us – the kind of twaddle people think you want to hear. And then she started to say that he'd talked about how Anne had been like a daughter to him. She'd obviously attached some importance to it, even half drugged, and she just kept saying it."

"And then you realised."

She nodded, her cheeks flushed. The gun had descended a fraction, but I knew better than to try and grab it off her. If I didn't manage to get it, then I would be in big trouble. But if I carried on talking, I might be able to persuade her to hand it over.

"Anne wasn't just _like_ a daughter to him. She was his daughter – his own flesh and blood. Which meant that if she realised, then she would be entitled to a fifth of my share."

"Which you couldn't afford."

"Exactly." She was becoming more animated now, her face flushed. "I couldn't believe that I'd killed my own father to get my hands on that money, and that now I was going to lose a chunk of it to the spoiled child of some horrible woman Father had had an affair with."

"So you tried to get rid of her."

"That night I snuck down to her cottage in the village. Lit a match and set the rug alight. I hoped that everyone would think it had just been a spark from the fire. Anyway, it meant she had to move out. I could watch her – check she wasn't too close to working out the truth."

"What about the letters?"

"I thought that if she was scared enough, then she'd leave Rybury. In a month the will would go through the system, providing no other blood relations applied. I didn't really mean to hurt her."

"But that didn't work."

"No. Anne was always so damn stubborn. When she went to London on that 'conference' I only just believed her. And when she brought you back to the house, I was more suspicious still. But, to give you credit, Mr. Holmes, I hardly thought that you were a world famous detective. I suspected something strange was going on, but you played your part very well."

I shrugged modestly, but I could hardly congratulate myself on my talents when I was being held at gunpoint.

"Anyway, after you left, I started investigating. It didn't take a lot of puzzling out as to whom Anne could be visiting in London, and the description of you I got from William's associates was quite illuminating."

"William's associates. Is that how you arranged the kidnapping?"

"Yes. I had been considering something like that – I needed to up the pressure on Anne and I was getting desperate. Especially if Sherlock Holmes was involved, I suspected that it wouldn't be long before her heritage was figured out. William had been up to Manchester to see who was for hire. We gave them the details and the money, and they sorted the rest out. Admittedly, I did think everything had gone to plan at first when you turned up here, but the concern, I'm afraid, was just a little overdone. I sensed that you were figuring it all out. Hence…"

She indicated the gun.

"Ah," I said eloquently. "And… err… What are your plans now, then?"

She heaved a large sigh. "The fact is, Mr. Holmes, that I can hardly let you free now and let you proclaim to the world how I'm a murderer." She sounded almost apologetic about it.

I considered what an incongruous image was laid before me. Such a young, attractive face, framed by neat copper curls. Pretty hazel eyes. And yet those small, childlike hands were pointing a loaded gun at my face, the sweet voice was that of a killer, and her brain was corrupted by madness.

"I can tell that you think I'm insane," she commented, and I found it unexpectedly disturbing to be on the receiving end of apparent mind-reading abilities. "But I'm not, you see. All I want is for William and I to be happy. That is how it's meant to be. And so if people have to die, then that's a shame, but quite necessary."

I reflected what a loss to both the academic world and to the stage this woman represented. And not least to Bedlam Hospital.

"So I am to be one of those people who have to die for your happiness?" I asked coldly.

She laughed prettily. Her laugh was like Anne's.

"You are so cynical about these things, but you must understand that William and I are made for each other."

_You're a right pair, you are! Made for each other! _

Lestrade, laughing. Anne's flushed face.

I tried to _think._

"And I don't expect I can trust you to go and keep your mouth closed about what has happened, not least to my darling _sister._" She spat out the word. "So, I'm afraid…"

She raised the gun and I decided to throw caution to the winds.

"Are you sure William feels the same way?" I asked casually. She froze.

"What did you say?"

"Are you sure William feels the same way?" I repeated. "I'm sure you can read the signs as well as I can. Poor Violet, waiting for her husband to return from the war. She is very attractive, you know. Very _striking. _Clever too."

Elsie gave an indistinct squawk of rage and I flung myself to the side as the gun went off. To my dismay, a few seconds later, a small hand scrabbled at my hair and wrenched me upright. In her madness, Elsie was incredibly strong. She was shaking, her eyes aflame. The gun was held to my left temple. "You bastard – I'm going to enjoy watching you die…"

I closed my eyes.

There was a crash, and my eyes snapped open again in astonishment to see two women apparently wrestling on the floor, their hair a blur of auburn and dark brown…

_Anne!_

_**Anne**_

Whatever I had expected when I had crept into the drawing room after hearing raised voices, it certainly wasn't Elsie holding a gun to Holmes' head. Clearly my timing was excellent.

I launched myself at her, flinging her to the floor, and heard her spitting and cursing as she tried to push me off. My hands closed over the gun, and it went off harmlessly as we struggled. She was smaller than I was, but mad with rage, and that leant her strength. However, finally, I managed to prise her fingers from the gun and wrench it from her grasp. I stood up shakily, wiping a string of blood from the reopened split in my lip, pointing the gun straight at my half-sister.

Elsie got to her feet too, swearing and cursing venomously, a rapidly darkening bruise on her cheek and a thin trickle of red adoring her forehead. Plunging her hand into her pocket, she drew out a second pistol, and I heard Holmes swear quietly. She immediately went to stand behind him, the gun to his head.

"I have to say, I didn't expect to meet you here, Anne," Elsie said coldly. "But the fact remains…"

Holmes yelled out a hopeless warning as someone grabbed me from behind, snatching the gun from my hands. I struggled fiercely, and then gasped as I felt my arm snap. William stood triumphantly, pointing the gun at me, and I must admit that I swore rather unpleasantly at him.

"Right," Elsie said with decision. "You. Get over there with your Mr. Holmes."

My eyes widened, watering with the pain. Mr. Holmes? She knew who he was? Things were bad. Even apart from the fact that now we were both being held hostage, and I had a broken arm.

I went quietly to sit beside him, as she and William began conversing in low voices, and he squeezed my uninjured hand gently. "Thank you," he said quietly, and I snorted.

"I don't think I was really a great deal of use, to be honest."

"Still…"

He glanced at my arm. "Are you all right?"

"I think so…"

Elsie and William turned back to us, and we found ourselves staring down the barrels of two guns.

"You can't hope to get away with this anyway," Holmes said gently. "You can't murder two people and hope no one will notice. They'll hear the gunshots."

Elsie licked her dry lips. "If we're going to Hell, then we'll take you with us."

She came over to us, and grabbed Holmes by the hair. William came to stand beside me, in case Holmes considered struggling. "You can have a choice," Elsie said quietly. "You kill her and then yourself, or we kill her and then you. Except _we_ can't guarantee that we'll do it quickly."

Holmes' eyes widened. His long, cold fingers tightened on my hand. "I won't…"

"I'm afraid…"

It was then that I acted. Lunging towards William, I managed to take him by surprise. Headbutting him viciously in the stomach, he stumbled backwards, winded, and I flung myself at him, knocking him to the floor. Elsie hesitated, unwilling to fire in case she hit William by mistake. Somehow I managed to grab the gun and slammed it down on his head. Hard. He went still and I hesitated, gasping from the exertion, spasms of red-hot pain shooting down my arm.

I scrabbled to my feet unsteadily, and my shaking hands dropped the gun. I made a grab for it at the same time as Elsie and our combined efforts sent it skidding across the floor and under the small sideboard in the corner. As Elsie rose again, her eyes bright with rage, it might as well have been ten miles away.

"You witch!" she snarled. "You'll pay for this!"

She raised the gun, and I closed my eyes.

A moment later, there was a gunshot, a muffled cry and lastly, a heavy crashing noise.

Elsie, out cold.

Maude standing over her, with a surprised expression and a heavy frying pan.

"I've called the police," she said breathlessly.

Oh God, oh God, oh God…

Holmes sprawled on the floor, a bloom of blood staining his shirt, having intercepted the bullet meant for me.

_**Holmes**_

"Ow," I said vaguely.

A second later, I was looking into Anne's face.

"What happened?" I asked through a haze of pain. "Elsie…"

"Maude concussed her with a frying pan," she said briskly, removing my jacket.

"Ah," I said thoughtfully. "I underestimated her, it seems."

"Yes."

There was something wrong with her voice. I squinted up at her – everything seems a little foggy – and saw that she was crying. "Miss Chantrey? What's wrong?"

"Call me Anne, for God's sake," she said irritably, wiping her eyes clumsily with one hand.

"Don't cry, I…"

I gave up speech then, because Anne had just pulled off my shirt, and my shoulder was really hurting now…

_**Anne**_

"Oh God, oh God, oh God…"

I wiped back the foolish tears again, and forced myself to concentrate on what I was looking at. The bullet was, by the looks of it, buried deep in Holmes' left shoulder. There was a terrible swathe of bloody flesh and even as I pressed his screwed up shirt to it in an effort to stop the flow, it became saturated almost at once.

"What's wrong?" he asked, his eyes half-closed. His speech was slightly slurred; he was probably going into shock.

"You've been shot," I managed to mumble.

"I know," he said, sounding almost proud of himself. I would have slapped him, but my uninjured arm was occupied in clutching the apparently ineffectual shirt to his wound. His chest was pale and muscular, rising and falling as his breath came in heaving gasps.

"Holmes? Keep talking to me," I said, my voice cracking. "I need to know you're all right."

"Mm?"

"'Mm' does not qualify talking. Tell me about the case!"  
"It was William and Elsie," he said proudly. His eyelids fluttered.

"No – stay awake!"

_**Holmes**_

I opened my eyes. Someone was shining a light in them.

"Ow," I protested.

"That's all he's said for the past half hour," Anne's voice told whoever was attempting to blind me.

"Well, I have been shot," I objected.

"Mr. Holmes? How are you feeling?"

"Not brilliant."

"Well, we've managed to stop the bleeding. Thank God the bullet didn't hit a main artery – you are a very lucky man."

"Hm," I grunted, and then saw Anne's tearstained face beside me. "Are you all right?"

She nodded, cradling her damaged arm with the other. "Not too bad."

I pointed at her with my uninjured arm. "You ought to see to her, doctor – her arm's broken."

He (a corpulent man with white hair and pince-nez) rolled his eyes. "We've been concentrating on sorting out you, actually."

"I'm fine," I insisted, struggling to sit up and experiencing another vicious stab of pain for my trouble. I had been placed on a bed - in Anne's room, judging by the décor. Anne pushed me gently back down again with her unhurt arm. "No more chivalry and bravado," she said sternly. "Stay there."

I reluctantly acquiesced and watched as the doctor examined her arm.

"It's certainly broken, and badly. But don't worry about her, Mr. Holmes. I'll sort her out."

I nodded my weary approval. "When will I be able to return to Baker Street?"

"Well, I'd certainly recommend a week or so of rest before…"

"We'll take the train tomorrow morning."

"I'm sorry, young man, but I don't think that is really advisable. You have lost a lot of blood…"

"I'm not a young man," I stated with dignity. "And I want to be back home," I added firmly.

Anne rolled her eyes at me. "I'll go with him, doctor, maybe the day after tomorrow, if he insists. I've had some nurse training. I can change his bandaging and whatever."

My heart lifted.

The doctor, apparently seeing that I could not be persuaded otherwise, sighed reluctantly and began to talk to Anne about signs of deterioration and whether I had a family doctor and other such nonsense. I decided it would be a better use of my time if I caught up on some sleep.

_Two and a half days later…_

_**Holmes**_

I yawned luxuriously, peered at the morning light that was peeking through the thin curtains of my room in Baker Street and prodded my shoulder experimentally through the bandages.

Anne and I had returned from Rybury by the first train on Thursday morning. I suspected that she was as keen as I was to get out of that house. While I was unconscious, the police had turned up and arrested a groggy William and Elsie, closely followed by the doctor, though I had apparently woken up long enough to murmur to some police sergeant whom I had never met before to "watch out for the laudanum" and "good work with the frying pan." Though according to Anne, he was overjoyed to have been spoken to by the famous Sherlock Holmes, delirious or not.

Anne had been as good as her word, and had been changing my bandages fastidiously, including the ones that she had put on my arms after my collapse, and applying so much iodine that Mrs. Hudson had had to send for a new bottle. However, she had been unexpectedly quiet, and we had not yet had a proper conversation about what had happened. However, that was hardly her fault, as I had spent most of the intervening days dozing, as was my habit after a particularly tricky case, even when I had not sustained a gunshot injury.

I yawned again, and then the door of my bedroom swung open.

"Good morning!" Anne greeted me jovially, sweeping in with a laden breakfast tray, which she dumped on my knees despite my protests, and sweeping open the curtains to bathe me with light. "I didn't made the breakfast – Mrs. Hudson did – but she has given me strict orders to make sure you eat it."

I glared dolefully at the plate piled high with bacon and eggs. A pot of marmalade was in danger of tipping off on to my knee, and a cup of tea was balanced precariously on top of a tottering pile of toast.

"Do you want some?" I enquired. "I can't eat all of this!"

She was perched on the end of my bed. Sighing, she accepted a piece of toast. It was clear that she meant to stay, and I took a deep breath, not knowing quite what to say.

"Thank you," we both said simultaneously, and then laughed awkwardly. Our eyes met for a second.

"You first," I offered, and she smiled faintly.

"Thank you. For, um… Getting shot for me."

I gave a quick smile. "No problem. And thank you for bursting in at just the right moment and stopping me being murdered."

She sighed. "Since it was my half-sister who was trying to shoot you, I'm not sure that really counts."

Hardly knowing what I was doing, I reached forwards and took her hand in mine. "No – seriously, Anne..."

"Don't you mean Miss Chantrey?" she asked coldly.

"No – sorry about that…"

"Don't worry – carry on."

"I'm sorry for making you stay in the village – I would have died without you there. And thank you for the last few days, too, and the days before that, in fact. You've made me feel…"

I swallowed hard. "Sorry… This is hard for me… You've made me feel alive again. So… Thank you, I suppose."

She smiled properly. "That's all right. In fact, I've quite enjoyed your company."

I froze, but she seemed not to notice, absent-mindedly reaching for another piece of toast. Gratefully, I quickly pushed the entire stack towards her. "Thanks," she murmured. "I'm starving. Mrs. Hudson doesn't seem to appreciate that women eat too. I suppose looking after you has made her lose track of reality."

I laughed. "What is that supposed to mean?"

She shrugged, and then touched my arm affectionately.

"I'm glad you're alive," she said suddenly. I opened my mouth, but she shushed me. "For a moment there – in the drawing room – I really thought…"

"That's why you were crying!" I said, with sudden realisation.

She rolled her eyes again. "I would have thought that was obvious, Mr. Genius Detective."

I frowned. I wasn't used to such things. "You cared that much…"

"Of course I care!" she said irritably, and stood to go.

"No – please, stay. I've hardly talked to you the past few days. I thought you'd been… avoiding me."

"Do you know why that was?" she said suddenly, and I shook my head.

"The first day was for being so pig-headed as to believe that it would be the best thing for me to blank me out completely, and that it was sensible to leave me behind in the village. And, by the way, if I hadn't disobeyed your express orders, you'd be dead."

"I know."

"The second day was for scaring me out of my life by making me think you were going to _die_!"

"Well, I apologise, but…"

"Anyway," she continued more gently, and I noticed vaguely that she had laid her piece of toast down on my quilts, but I couldn't spare a great deal for attention to that because she was moving closer to me – good _God_…

"This is for saving my life, and for still being alive."

She leaned towards me, and my brain stopped working.

_**Anne**_

He was completely frozen with the shock as I touched my lips to his. They were warm and soft, and tasted a little of tobacco, and a little of mint. In fact, utterly delicious.

I moved back a little, and we broke apart. Holmes was watching me with slightly glazed eyes, like a rabbit caught in the headlights. "You… I mean… You just…"

I could feel a stupid smile spreading over my face, and I bent down again…

_**Holmes**_

What was _happening_? Not that I hadn't considered it myself, but with my experience of such matters being so limited (in fact, practically non-existent), I was finding it extremely hard to think. Or was that normal?

She leaned forwards again, and one of my hands reached out to touch her beautiful dark hair…

"Holmes?" Lestrade's voice asked sharply from the other room.

We snapped away from each other at once, and I managed to spill scalding tea all over myself. "Oh, God…"

"Ah, there you are," Lestrade said jovially, opening the door. "Dr. Jackson and I thought we'd just pop in and see how you were doing…"

His ferrety eyes focussed in bewilderment on the close proximity of Anne and I. "Not, ah, disturbing anything, are we?"

"Certainly not," I said firmly. "I just split my tea – Miss Chantrey was helping me clear up."

Lestrade raised his eyebrows – maybe his observational powers _were _finally improving…

At that moment, Dr. Jackson popped his head round the door. "Ah, Mr. Holmes – how are you feeling?"

"Fine," I said acidly, trying not to think how much better I would be feeling if they just _left now_ and I could continuing kissing Anne. My lips were tingling, and I was having trouble making my brain work properly…

"Flowers, Lestrade?" Anne asked curiously, pointing at them. "Your wife, I suppose?"

"She doesn't miss a trick, does she?" Lestrade said good-humouredly. "Yes, they are as a matter of fact – Dr. Jackson's young lady has got him to bring some too…"

"Lovely," I said gloomily.

"Here – come in – there are chairs here…" Anne said politely, inviting them into _my _room, and taking the flowers from Lestrade to stick in an empty vase she had placed by my bed already in preparation, her movements hampered surprisingly little by the clumsy plaster cast she was wearing on her arm.

"How many people know then, that I'm ill?" I asked, with little enthusiasm, glancing at Dr. Jackson. So much for his "young lady" – he was looking torn between delight at seeing Anne again and obvious distaste at seeing her standing so comfortably by my side. Eventually, delight won, and he handed over his own bunch of flowers with a smile.

"How many people know?" I asked again, irritably. He started.

"Wha… Oh! I'm afraid you have reporters from several papers camped on your doorstep, Mr. Holmes, eager for news. We had quite a battle to get to the door – Mrs. Hudson refused to let us in until she recognised us."

I groaned and sank back on to the pillows. "Those bloody… Excuse my language, Anne – sorry… Those bloody parasites, making you a prisoner in your own home…."

"Well, don't worry yourself about them," Dr. Jackson said impatiently. "How is your shoulder?"

"Very well, thank you," I said curtly, prodding it again. Both he and Anne winced.

"Don't do that!"

I sighed. "How are you, Lestrade? I'm sure you haven't come here to present me with medical advice."

He nodded. "Fine. Scotland Yard have managed to take over the Rybury case – the media focus on it is so huge, what with you injured and all…"

I sighed. "When is the trial?"

"A few days, give or take. We want to get this one cleared up as soon as possible."

I nodded thoughtfully.

"Anyway," Lestrade continued, rising from his chair. "Glad to see you better, Mr. Holmes, but I'm afraid I can't stay too long. Duty calls, and all that."

He nodded to Anne, shook hands with Dr. Jackson and I, and left.

"Right, then, how is that shoulder?" Jackson asked with false cheerfulness, reaching forwards to undo my shirt. I sighed at the indignity of it all and allowed myself to be prodded and poked and my wound disinfected yet again.

When it was finally all over, we managed to eject Dr. Jackson, and Anne and I were left behind with an uncomfortable silence. Her cheeks were slightly flushed, and she was running her fingers up and down my arm absent-mindedly.

I tried to think clearly. "Anne…"

"I've got an idea on how you can get your own back on those newspaper reporters," she said brightly.

_**Anne**_

"Being able to act well is a _key _skill to have as a detective," Holmes said authoritatively to the small semi-circle of dirty little street arabs about his bedside, as I applied the last of the greasepaint to Tommy Phelps. "It allows you to extract all sorts of useful information that you could never obtain under your normal guise."

The Baker Street Irregulars nodded in agreement.

"If choo hadn't acted so much like a hero, and all, Mr. Holmes, then mebbe you wouldn't have got shooted," one of them put in, and the rest nodded solemnly.

"Shot, shot," Holmes corrected him sternly. "Quite right. Now, do you know what you are to do?"

More nods.

"Right. Off you go!"

I went to lean out of the stealthily opened window to watch as the Irregulars poured from 221B, straight into the arms of the curious townsfolk, some aimed with cameras carefully set up, and pen and paper in case an interview might be forthcoming.

"Hey!"

"What's going on?"

"Wait – stop one!"

There was a small scuffle, and one of the reporters emerged clutching a filthy, scrawny boy.

"You – wait a moment, he's crying!"

The captured Irregular was shaken roughly. "What the devil…?"

"Lemme go!" the little voice sobbed. "Lemme go!"

"Have you been to see Sherlock Holmes?" someone asked excitedly.

"Yis I have… Oi, gerroff me…"

"How is he?"

"Is it true that he's on his deathbed?"

The Irregular was shaking with feigned sobs. "Oh, sir… He's dead, sir…"

There were excited whispers. "Dead?"

"Gerroff me…"

The little boy finally managed to twist himself free and tore off down the street, wiping the crude make-up from his face as he did so. Smiling, I returned to Holmes' bedside. He still looked tired, but his eyes were a little brighter.

_**Holmes**_

To the delight of Anne and I, three of the next morning's papers had headlines along the lines of "Great London Detective Solves Last Case". Apparently, the report proclaimed that a "reliable source" had emerged from Baker Street to announce my unfortunate and untimely demise. The others merely made vague speculations as to my apparently deteriorating health.

It was indeed a credit to my "iron clad constitution" that a week later we were finally able to lay the rumours to rest once and for all, making a brief trip out for the unpleasant business of Elsie and William's trial. There were accused of a list of offences, including for William several murder charges scattered about the country (evidently his vices had not been limited to gambling). Elsie, of course, was charged with the murder of her father and my attempted murder also.

They were both found guilty and sentenced to death by hanging.

Anne was a little quiet that day.

I was becoming increasing worried about when she would decide to leave Baker Street - I knew that she would have to leave at some point, but I was dreading the day awfully.

During my convalescence, Gregson ran into yet more problems surrounding the Barnworth-Nokes forgery case, which I had thought childishly simple at the time, when he had tried to involve me at the police station as Anne and I left. But in actuality once a murder had been throw in, it became increasingly complex, and I finally deigned to assist him, only to find it a truly intriguing problem. It was Anne who finally provided the missing piece of the puzzle – the colour of the dead woman's lipstick suggested that another man bar the prime suspect (her husband) had been involved, hence bringing the case to a satisfactory conclusion.

Several weeks later, I was basking in the scanty sunlight coming in through the window of the study, when Anne came in, her face set. I knew instantly what she was going to say, and my heart froze.

"Holmes… I…"

"You want to go home?" I asked quietly.

She shrugged gently. "My cottage has finally been repaired, and I honestly think I ought to go back. I'll visit often, of course."

"Oh, yes, certainly… You're always welcome…"

My words sounded empty and cold. We hadn't talked about the kiss we had shared that morning a week or so ago, and I feared that a repetition of it was sadly unlikely to be forthcoming.

"I suppose it's goodbye, then. There's a cab outside – sorry, not telling you earlier, it's just that I hate long goodbyes."

She hesitated for a moment and then came over to embrace me. "I'll be back, I promise," she said quietly, kissing my cheek quickly. I nodded dumbly, wished her well, and then watched her leave.

"Wait! Anne! Wait!"

She turned slightly. "Yes?"  
"I was just wondering if you would be willing… I mean, you don't have to… But what about becoming my assistant? Your work on that forgery case was… brilliant… I don't mean…"

She gave me a sad smile. "Sorry, Holmes, but I have to turn you down. Honestly, I'll be back before you know it."

"Bye," I said flatly, as she left.

It was too quiet without her.

My shoulder ached.

Badly.

I didn't feel like playing my violin.

Or reading.

Or smoking.

No doubt I would have reached for the cocaine bottle, if I had been able to find the damn thing.

Almost reluctantly, my fingers toyed with the brandy decanter…

_**Holmes**_

About half an hour later, there was a knock on the door.

"Hello?" I asked stupidly.

Anne pushed the door open, her face flushed. My eyes widened. "What…?"

"I don't want to be your assistant," she said firmly.

"I thought we'd already…" I hiccoughed. "I thought we'd already established that."

"We had. I've come to make you a different offer."

"Sorry… What? I don't understand."

"I want to be your business partner. You say I've got a good eye. Well, teach me, then. I'm pretty good already, and I'm sure you could do with a lesson or two on women's intuition."

My jaw dropped. "You mean…"

"Yes – though I'll want half of the fees if I help with a case, of course."

"I… I…"

"I'll pay for my room upstairs – I've already settled it with Mrs. Hudson. Chantrey and Holmes, Consulting Detectives."

"Holmes and Chantrey, surely?" I protested weakly.

She sighed theatrically. "I suppose."

"But what about your cottage?"

She grinned apologetically. "I've already sold it. I don't really feel like going back to Rybury, after all that happened."

I thought my heart was going to burst with happiness. "What are you going to do if I refuse?" I managed to ask. "You seem to have fairly effectively sealed off your alternative options."

She smiled, and I realised that maybe it didn't matter if I never found my morocco case.

"None of that is going to be an issue. Because I know you won't refuse."

Sure enough, I didn't.

1 Laudanum, (so my dictionary reliably informs me) is an alcoholic solution containing morphine, prepared from opium and formerly used as a narcotic painkiller, which worked by inducing drowsiness or stupor.

**Author's Note:**

Well, I hope you are all favourably impressed by the reasonably prompt chapter update! I enjoyed writing this one actually, though because Mum and her boyfriend have left for the Brecon Beacons, Dad has come to join us down in Pembs and so the majority of this chapter has been typed in a tent in Grandma's garden – don't ask…

mstef - thank you for having a guess – hope you weren't too disappointed with the real killer! And I hope having Maude whack Elsie over the head with a frying pan sort of neutralised your very true point about underestimating people. Not to mention that she was kind of drugged which made her dimmer than she was really…

TimeGhost823 – of course I will always consider ideas! Generally I never know what I'm doing anyway, so suggestions are actually very helpful!

Unidentifiable Alley-Cat – I KNOW the final episode was truly brill – when Holmes snatched the bomb off Watson… sighs wistfully…

Raptured Night – thank you as always Good luck with the essays You have my sympathy!

Just one last thing (I promise!) – reading this back I realised it sounded a bit like a last chapter, which was not intentional and FEAR NOT there will be more (predominantly Holmes/Anne sorting-out-ness, since I can't be bothered to even attempt to figure out another semblance of a mystery…), but more nonetheless!

So thank you for reading and reviewing, and please please please continue to do so!


	15. Chapter 15 Dreaming

_November 16__th_

_**Holmes**_

I woke suddenly, and realised that I had dozed off on the sofa. My violin had fallen into my lap between my crossed legs. I rubbed my eyes wearily. I had only intended to sort out a few problematic semi-quavers in my latest mental composition, but clearly my fatigue had got the better of me.

I went to get to my feet, but immediately pain shot through my shoulder. I winced heavily. Although the visible wound had healed, I had not yet regained full mobility in it, and it was prone to becoming extremely stiff. Several hours curled up in an awkward position certainly had that effect. In fact, it was excruciatingly painful to move it at all.

I groaned quietly and rubbed it with my other hand, trying to flex the cramped muscles.

_**Anne**_

When I had first met Holmes – several months ago, now, I could never have imagined the change in direction that my life was about to take. I had imagined myself continuing teaching in Rybury for several more years at least, maybe marrying someone just a little tedious from the village (Mark Collingwood had indeed seemed a prime contender at one point), maybe even starting up my own academy, and, in the dim and distant future, even children might have been on the cards.

However, now that fragile imaginary world had been shattered, and I was now in the risky position of sharing a set of rooms with a bachelor. Albeit a not particularly eligible one, who was considered to be nothing but a reasoning machine by the general public, however erroneously.

All the things that I trusted in the world had somehow turned against me. My uncle's generosity and kindness in taking me in – in fact fuelled by fear of my true parentage being discovered. My siblings – generally disastrous. George and Violet, perfectly eager to believe that I was a murderer, the latter thinking of me in terms of a parasite. And I hardly needed to mention Elsie.

Throughout all that chaos, Holmes had been the only element in the equation that I could trust. I could trust him to be unpredictable, to be irritating, to be stupidly brilliant and brilliantly stupid. I could trust him to be charming and kind, to be clueless and offensive. I could trust him to complain endlessly about the noise of a moth wandering the windowsill and then spend hours tunelessly scraping at his violin (though in truth his beautiful compositions more than compensated). I could trust him to be overly concerned for my health and frustratingly heedless of his own. I could trust him to be enclosed in an impenetrable fortress one minute and incredibly vulnerable the next.

But I had saved his life, and he had saved mine, and that tended to bring us together, despite his infinite eccentricities.

I woke unexpectedly in the dark of my room, and glanced blearily at the clock. It was a few minutes past two in the morning, and part of me was inclined to go back to sleep, until I noticed a thin sliver of light beneath my door. Frowning, and pausing only to slip a dressing gown over my thin nightdress, because the night was chilly, I padded downstairs quietly to discover the source of the light.

I discovered Holmes sprawled on the sofa, his violin discarded beside him and the gas lamp burning brightly on the desk by the window. Even as I watched, he shifted uncomfortably and swore irritably under his breath.

"Holmes? Are you all right?"

He started visibly, swivelling his head around, and could not restrain a sharp curse, immediately returning to his former position. "I am quite fine. I could ask you the same question. Why are you awake and wandering the house at such an abominable hour?"

"I'm sure you do not consider the hour abominable," I chided him. "Indeed, I see you have been indulging in some violin playing."

He gave a short laugh. "Yes. In fact, I was just about to head to bed myself. Goodnight."

"Holmes…"

"You may go back to bed," he said firmly. His voice was so commanding and stern that I knew that Watson, in my place, would have done as he had said. But, being rather more stupid, I did not.

"I'm not going until you have told me what is wrong."

"There is nothing wrong with me, I assure you."

"Really? Then why are you holding your shoulder so uncomfortably?"

He gave an irritable sigh, and moved it slightly. "I fell asleep in an odd position, and it is merely a little stiff. There is no need for your concern."

I instantly became twice as concerned as before. "But you know it is important to keep the joint loose so it heals as well as possible, Holmes! Otherwise you may never regain full mobility of it!"

He snorted under his breath, and gave his shoulder a little exaggerated twitch to emphasise his nonchalance. I did not miss his very slight intake of breath and the tightening of the muscles about his mouth.

"Holmes, you are being ridiculous. Just let me help you. Is it really such a bad thing, to ask for help when you need it? It hardly makes you less of a man."

"You think I am concerned with such things?" he replied cuttingly. I had grown to understand that the more irritable and rude he was, the more worried he was that I was getting too close. "Anyway, how could you help me?"

"By giving you some sort of massage – relaxing the muscles. I'm sure…

"Honestly, I shall be quite fine. Go back to bed."

I said nothing, but merely moved to the back of the sofa and lunged for his shoulder. He shifted away, and another grimace of pain crossed his pain. "Holmes, for God's sake…"

We glared at each other for a minute, until he realised he could not cow me even with his most withering stare. He sighed and turned pointedly away.

Undeterred, I moved to the front of the sofa. "Just let me…"

I reached again for his shoulder, more gently.

"I don't want your help!" he snarled, pushing me away. As he did so, the sleeve of his shirt fell back.

"Oh, Holmes…" I groaned.

Deep scratches and cuts on his arms. Fresh.

He shuddered, pulling the sleeve back again, and looking away.

"I don't wish to discuss the matter."

"I'll get the iodine," I said shortly.

When I returned, he did not protest as I pushed up his sleeve and bathed and bandaged the cuts. My only consolation was that his arm was marginally less skeletal than when I had last seen it. Evidently my constant pestering him to eat had had some effect after all.

When I had finished, I put the iodine away again and then came to kneel on the floor before the sofa, taking one of his cold hands in mine. He refused to meet my eyes.

"Why, Holmes?" I asked quietly. "I mean… I thought with me here… I thought you were happier…"

His eyes shot to mine at once. "I am. I just…"

He looked away again.

"Try and talk to me," I urged.

"It's hard," he said quietly, and his voice sounding on the verge of breaking.

"Try."

"Sometimes… Sometimes, although it be beautiful and sunny, you feel like the sky is dark," he murmured. "I can't stop it… Just that hopelessness that comes over you…"

He shuddered.

"It helps to take away that pain – for a while. It replaces it. Physically. I can deal with physical pain. I am used to it. But that horrible darkness…" He shivered again.

"Oh, Holmes," I said quietly. "I don't know how to help you."

"You do," he replied. "You do help me."

"How?"

He shook his head quickly and glanced down again.

"Please, let me…"

"No!" he said curtly.

"I will move out," I said coldly. It was the lowest threat that I could have thought of, and it hurt me deeply when I saw the expression on his face. "I swear to you, Holmes. I won't stay if you won't let me help."

Finally, he nodded slowly.

I sat on the sofa beside me. "Turn around," I commanded. "Face away from me."

He did so, awkwardly – I could tell that he was in pain. I reached gently for his shoulder and rubbed it soothingly, letting my fingers do the work. I could feel the ridge of the scar beneath his shirt, and traced it curiously. He shivered slightly.

"Sorry – did I hurt you?"

"No."

Several minutes later, he spoke again. "You are very good at that," he murmured grudgingly. "Where did you learn?"

His praise gave me a warm feeling. "My uncle had very bad lumbago. I used to give him a massage sometimes. It helped with the pain, he said."

"He was right."

I knew he had noticed that I had said "uncle" instead of "father". Somehow, I could not seem to acknowledge my uncle like that. I half wished I had known him better. Where he'd come from, his likes and dislikes. Things a niece was not obliged to know, but which a daughter should.

"The effect is very…" Holmes paused.

"Relaxing?" I suggested.

His voice was heavy with sleep now. "No. Soporific."

Ten minutes later he had fallen asleep, leaning awkwardly on the back of the sofa. I shifted his body slightly (he still weighed hardly more than a child) so he was in a more comfortable position. Then I fell asleep myself.

xxx

_**Anne**_

I woke again to a soft groan. Holmes' eyes were roving beneath his lids, his hand twitching. Immediately I knew that he was once more in the grip of one of one of the nightmares that so often plagued him.

"Holmes?" I said urgently, shaking his shoulder. "Holmes, wake up!"

He did so, with a jolt. For a moment he lay there on the sofa, quivering, his eyes wide, and then he sat up again, hands to his mouth, shaking like a leaf.

"Are you all right?"

He nodded slowly.

"You're not, are you?"

He shook his head, rubbing his eyes wearily.

"Bad dream again?"

He hesitated, and then reluctantly nodded, collapsing back on to the sofa. "I thought they'd stopped."

My heart beat a little faster. It was the first time that he had shown anything close to willingness to talk about his nightmares. "Do you want to talk?"

He hesitated. "I'm fine."

That hesitation was all I needed. "Please."

He rubbed his face exhaustedly. "It's hard," he murmured again.

I waited.

"It starts off…" He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. "I'm walking. And then I know someone's following me, and I start running. Then I turn and it's…"

He twisted his head away awkwardly. "Have you heard of Professor Moriarty?"

"You arch-nemesis?" I queried, puzzled. "Who died at Reichenbach?"

Holmes nodded swiftly. "He's standing there. I can't run away."

He breathed out slowly. "And then I realise that it isn't him – it's Watson."

"Watson?" I found it hard to work out how Holmes' erstwhile companion could find his way into his nightmares.

"He's dead. He's wearing a bandage on his head, and his eyes…"

Holmes shuddered, and almost without realising it, I reached forwards and touched his hand gently. He did not push it away. "And then he starts taunting me, telling me how it could have…" He winced. "Would have… Should have… Been me. If only I'd gone out with him that day…"

"You can't change that," I said gently.

"He keeps disparaging me, jeering at me for living when he can't – telling me what I really am…"

His face was buried in his hands, and I thought I heard a dry sob.

"What are you really?" I asked quietly.

His head snapped up, and his face was white and drawn, his eyes red with suppressed tears. "I am not fit to be called a man. I am a self-absorbed, conceited, ridiculous fool. It's my fault that he died – I should have gone with him. I am pathetic – a coward. I'm keeping you here because of my own selfishness – you should be with your family, living your life, not cooped up in here with a depressed drug-addict."

"Holmes…"

"Who cares about cleverness and pointing out the petty features of petty crimes, when others around you are kind and considerate and loyal?"

"Holmes…"

"Why did he have to die? He was a good man, better than I, despite all his misplayed admiration. Can you believe that people hardly noticed him, next to Sherlock Holmes, the Great Detective, when he was fully thrice the man that I am? People say that I am a reasoning machine – so be it. Pah! I deserve to be nothing more than a… than a…"

"Holmes! Stop this now!"

I had seized him by the shoulders and was shaking him violently. But still the torrent of self-loathing poured from his mouth. He was shaking, his silver eyes a mess of tears.

"Stop it!"

He wouldn't stop, the terrible words of self-hatred vomiting from him. So, to stop him, I kissed him. Hard.

It was far brief, less tender, than the last time, but his look of utter shock when I drew back, was, I was glad to see, exactly the same. It was also effective in shutting him up.

"You've got to stop this," I said shakily. "Don't you see? Remember your Watson, your real friend Watson – he would not begrudge you an entire world of happiness. What do you think he would say if he saw you like this?"

Holmes didn't answer, his desperate eyes fixed on me.

"This Watson in your dreams, Holmes – it's you. It's your own guilt and misery and self-hatred. You need to realise that people care about you very much – for who you are."

He snorted and turned away. "Who?"

The disbelieving tone of his voice infuriated me. "I do, for a start! And Lestrade, and your brother, and…"

"Lestrade only cares about me because without me he could not close his cases," Holmes replied curtly. "And my brother has never cared for me."

By now I was close to shrieking at him. "Are you deaf?"

He fixed me with a sad glare. "I do not believe so."

"I care about you! I care about you a ridiculous amount! Because I know that behind that façade you put up, there is a kind, compassionate, gentle, brilliant human being. And don't you see that when you say these things, when you hurt yourself, that it hurts me, too?"

He looked away. "Such a thing is not physically possible."

"I want to help you. Goddammit, if I never see my family again, it will be worth it if I have helped you at all." I grabbed his head and turned it to face me. "Listen to me, Holmes. I can't bear it. Please. Talk to me. Shout at me. Hate me. I don't care. But don't hate yourself."

There was such a look of hope mingled with disbelief, of longing mixed with sadness, of vulnerability and doubt, on his face that it nearly broke my heart.

"Trust me," I said quietly. "I'm not going to leave you."

There was a long moment where I thought he was going to turn away, to ignore me, to take the easy way out. But finally he nodded slowly, his eyes still fixed on me.

"Go back to sleep," I said gently.

Still watching me, as if afraid that I was about to leave as soon as he closed his eyes, he lay back on the sofa, curled up in a ball. Eventually his breathing became heavy and regular.

I glared at him thoughtfully. Previously I had believed that there were two sides to Sherlock Holmes – the detective and the human being. And I had found it hard enough to deal with them.

The detective was cutting, rude (often without even noticing that he was) and fanatically dedicated, the brilliantly intelligent, inexhaustible sleuthhound. Emotions were only considered as possible motives for sentimental (and therefore foolish) wrongdoers. He was heedless of any injury he incurred himself, living and breathing facts and logic.

Then, as soon as the case was finished, the human being would return. Lazy to an astonishing degree, but also surprisingly kind and courteous. Charming and pensive, that occasional odd little smile flickering on to that pale angular face.

But now there seemed to be a new facet of Holmes' personality to add to my list. The vulnerable, insecure, viciously self-critical _wreck_ who was at this moment huddled at the other end of the sofa.

However, now I came to think of it, there were yet more aspects of Holmes. The genius musician, the peculiar, playful child, the painfully shy adolescent, the marvellously talented actor with a taste for the melodramatic, the young boy desperately seeking approval and admiration. All had come together to create this strange, beautiful being before me.

I stopped dead. _Beautiful being? Oh, God, what is happening to me?_

I looked at him. He was not beautiful in the strict sense of the word, certainly, with his exhausted, gaunt face. But there was something in his pronounced cheekbones, the slim, strong line of his jaw, his long, pale fingers. Over the past few months I had begun to notice his little habits more and more – the intent look he got in his eyes when he was close to the conclusion of a case, his way of throwing his head back when he laughed (which was a sadly a rare occurrence), that faraway expression that sometimes seized hold of him, the way he used to grab my arm in the excitement of another piece of the puzzle fitting into place…

Well, I had kissed the man. Three times, now, in fact, even if the first was only on the forehead. It was natural that I felt a little… Well…

I rubbed my face wearily. It would be so much _simpler _if these feelings would just go away, so I wouldn't be left a ridiculous lovelorn idiot trailing after poor Holmes for the rest of my life. As for him reciprocating my feelings, I thought that, on balance, it was extremely unlikely. What the poor man needed was a good _friend _to support him, not a pathetic ex-schoolteacher adding her own problems into the mix.

And whatever I would like to believe, all that I had said to him had been true. I did care about him a ridiculous amount. And it hurt me to see him hurt – a horrible, sickening pain deep in my stomach.

I sighed and decided that I should stop thinking and try to get some sleep. Knowing Holmes, he would be up at some impossible time in the morning and would expect me to be as fully alert and awake as he was. Damn the man.

_**Holmes**_

_I was walking through a meadow filled with beautiful flowers. The sunlight was warm on my face – I closed my eyes in contentment… _

_ When I opened them, I knew he was there. So I began to run, my feet stumbling through the long grass. But then I fell, face down, as if my legs had been suddenly cut from under me._

_ I scrabbled around, turning, and saw Moriarty, striding towards me. I was trying to crawl away but my legs had frozen…_

_ He was towering above me, and he was laughing._

_ "Sherlock Holmes… I'm going to enjoy watching you die…"_

_ I closed my eyes, waiting for the fatal blow._

_ And then I opened them again, because nothing had happened. Just in time to see something (or was it someone?) lunging at Moriarty from the side and knocking him to the ground. My eyes widened. It was Anne, fighting tooth and nail with Moriarty – tussling, biting, scratching, kicking…_

_ "Are you all right, old chap?"_

_ Strong arms were helping me to my feet. I staggered upwards, my legs still shaking. _

_ And turned to see Watson. Watson as he had been – his gentle, friendly face concerned, clear blue eyes sparkling, a warm, comforting hand patting my on the shoulder._

_ "I say, Holmes, that was a close one!"_

_ I nodded, mutely, taking him in._

_ "Who's the young lady?" Watson asked approvingly. "She seems quite… feisty."_

_ "She is rather," I replied thoughtfully. "She certainly…"_

_ We both winced as Anne dealt Moriarty a smashing blow across the face._

_ "Has she done that before?" Watson asked with interest. "She appears remarkably accomplished at it."_

_ "She has, as a matter of fact."_

_ "Well, I must say, Holmes, I never knew…"_

_ "That I had such good taste?"_

_ He beamed at me. "You haven't changed."_

_ I couldn't hold back any longer. "Oh, God – Watson, I'm so sorry."_

_ His kind face quirked into a frown. "Sorry for what, Holmes?"_

_ "For Reichenbach. For not coming with you that day. For never telling you how much you meant to me – my only friend..."_

_ Tears sprang to my eyes. Watson's hand was firm on my shoulder._

_ "There was never anything to forgive, old fellow."_

_ "But…"_

_ "Move on, Holmes." The blue eyes were staring deep into mine. All around me, the meadow was fading. Moriarty was lying still on the grass. Anne got to her feet and came to stand beside me silently. The scent of the flowers faded from the air, until there were just the three of us, standing in emptiness._

_ "Watson…."_

_ We embraced clumsily, and Watson slapped me on the back. "Go on, Holmes. Live your life. Just because I died it doesn't mean you need to punish yourself for the rest of it."_

_ We broke apart. I felt Anne's small warm hand on my shoulder. Watson smiled at her. "Good luck, Holmes."_

_ "Wait, Watson…"_

_ I realised he was fading too – I lunged towards him, but he was already disappearing, like smoke. "What more is there to say?" he asked._

_ "I… I…"_

_ "Move on, Holmes," Watson's voice repeated quietly. I realised I was waking up, struggling to remain in the dream. "Why do you need to hide yourself in the dark?"_

I woke.

I could tell by the intensity of the sunlight on my closed eyelids that it was most probably early morning. And despite the time of year, I was comfortably warm. Which was rather odd, in fact.

Good _God_!

I opened my eyes. Somehow, I was lying on the sofa, with Anne's sleeping head resting on my chest, and my arms protectively around her. My instinctive reaction was to leap to my feet, to scrabble away from the sofa, to barricade myself back in my room…

But actually it felt worryingly pleasant.

I exhaled slowly, and shifted my body slightly, supporting Anne so I could lie her down on the sofa as I got up. She was only wearing her nightdress and her thin dressing grown, so I fetched a coat to drape over her.

At that moment, I thought she looked even more beautiful than ever.

_**Anne**_

I opened my eyes, to find myself lying slightly awkwardly on the sofa, snuggled into a jacket that smelled pleasantly of Holmes.

"Good morning," the owner of the jacket said cheerfully.

He was sitting at the desk by the window, eyes on the notes he was currently scribbling. I didn't even ask how he'd noticed my eyelids flutter open. "Good morning," I replied, stretching.

"How did you sleep?" he asked. In fact, he was most unusually cheerful. I would have tried to figure out exactly what was the cause of his light heartedness, if I had not still been trying to wake up properly. I was also more concerned that in a minute he was going to ask for his jacket back, and I was rather loathe to part from it.

"Very well, thank you. What about you?"

He smiled quietly to himself. I loved that smile – the way his lips crinkled at the corners, the little sparkle that burnt for a moment in his eyes. "Excellently."

I was hardly surprised; if he had slept poorly then this happy mood would be highly improbable.

"Any dreams?" I asked cautiously.

"Yes."

"Oh." I was momentarily perplexed. Good dreams, then?"

"Yes."

He raised his head slightly. His coal black hair was not quite as neat as it usually was, but I was so glad to see his smile that I barely noticed.

"Oh." Suddenly I was filled with a sudden recklessness. Maybe it was related to the jacket that I was still half wearing around my shoulders. "Did I perhaps feature in this dream?"

His eyes glittered. "As a matter of fact, you did."

My heartbeat accelerated wildly. "Oh?"

"You were having a fight with Professor Moriarty," Holmes continued thoughtfully.

I laughed. "Really? Did I win?"

"You did, as a matter of fact."

"Well…. Good."

I reluctantly decided that sitting in my nightdress on the sofa was not particularly appropriate, so I rose to go and dress. Holmes glanced up suddenly as I turned to go upstairs.

"Wait, Anne…"

He grabbed my hand. "I wanted to thank you…"

I waved my free hand unconcernedly, trying not to think about how warm his hand was, how large it was about mine, the occasional slight roughness of the skin where his experiments had gone awry, long, elegant fingers linked with mine…

Too late.

"Honestly, don't worry about it, Holmes. That's what friends are for."

He hesitated. "No, honestly. And not just for sorting out my shoulder."

"How is it today?"

"Much better, thank you. But that's not the point. Those things you said… I…"

"I meant every word of them," I said firmly, and squeezed his fingers.

Had I imagined it, or did his eyes grow a little brighter?

"Well… I just wished to tell you that I… It meant a great deal to me."

Suddenly overcome, I leaned forwards and embraced him. His arms folded about me. My heart was hammering wildly. He withdrew slightly, frowning. "Are you all right?"

Dear God. I had just hugged the world's greatest detective, and somehow hoped that he wouldn't notice my heartbeat accelerate ridiculously. "I'm fine," I said quickly, drawing back, my face flushing scarlet.

He was still frowning. "Anne, your heart is beating very rapidly. Are you sure you're well…?"

"Absolutely… Very well…" I stuttered incoherently, and made a dash for the stairs, and the safety of my room.

_December 23__rd_

_**Holmes**_

Two days. Two days until Christmas, which was being impatiently anticipated by every irritating well-wisher in London.

And, God help me, _where_ was I going to put the piano?

I looked helplessly about the living room and despaired yet again of its diminutive size.

Knowing Anne's love of music, and having seen her wistful expression now and again when I played the violin, I had decided to get her a piano for a Christmas gift.

I groaned. What had I been thinking? There was no room! I had already tidied away three whole boxes of manuscripts detailing my cases, and I was soon going to be unable to open the door of my bedroom without risk of injury, due to the various chemistry experiments which I had stowed within. On a more positive note, I had found my favourite Bunsen burner, as well as a vial of potassium cyanide that I had been searching for some months.

Anne was away for the day, testifying in Gloucester at a murder trial – the rather interesting problem of the Worthington Sailor…

I tried to concentrate on the task in hand. I had an hour or so to decide which of my possessions I could afford to part with in order to make room for the new arrival. I glanced at the bookcase, and the various books littered around it. Maybe if I could clear some of those out of the way, then I could shift the bookcase left…

I nodded determinedly, and picked up a few books at random to stuff in yet another cardboard box. My range of books was rather limited – most of the space was taken up with old case files. I was not particularly fond of literature – I had never even touched a romance novel, and I found detective stories tedious and unrealistic. There were Watson's old sea novels, but I could never get rid of those…

I straightened up with a sigh, and promptly caught my head on the sprig of mistletoe – or was it holly? – which Anne had hung liberally about the room.

Watson and I had always been quite conservative in our celebration of Christmas, and our only decorations had been the ones Mrs. Hudson had forced on us. Anne, however, accustomed to lavish family Christmases, had other ideas. All forms of (unhygienic, of course) plant life were draped about the room and about the banisters. She had even managed to procure a small tree (a tree, of all things!), which she had installed in the corner of the room and then proceeded to cover in candles and glass globes and even an angel on the top.

I smiled slightly when I remembered the Christmas Days that Watson and I had spent together. On one occasion (to Watson's great annoyance, and to my delight) our luxurious Yuletide lunch had been interrupted by a truly delicious murder case that I honestly enjoyed solving far more than I would have enjoyed finishing the lunch. Not to mention the interesting affair of the Blue Carbuncle, which I had also greatly enjoyed working on before the New Year.

For the past two years, however, the memories had been too strong for me, and I had drowned myself in cocaine and alcohol over the duration of the festive season.

I sighed slightly, vexed with myself for reminiscing, and extracted a cigar from the coal-scuttle to distract myself. I lit it irritably and returned to seizing handfuls of books.

My fingers closed over a smooth, familiar object, and I recoiled.

Oh God.

I closed my eyes, and stretched my hand out for it, withdrawing it from its hiding place.

My morocco case.

My hands shaking, I opened it. My hypodermic syringe, and a single small ampoule of – I guessed – morphine.

_Throw it away._

I didn't know why I couldn't just drop the thing, kick it away from me. But somehow, the sight of it compelled me.

_Think about Anne._

Anne.

But Anne wouldn't be back for a few hours yet.

I could remember the feeling exactly – that cool, hazy exultation that swept through my veins. I exhaled shakily. Suddenly I felt I _needed _it, just one more time…

_No, no, no, no…_

I tried to ignore the voice in my head, and, as if in a dream, I took out the syringe.

xxx

_**Anne**_

"Holmes? Holmes?"

I glanced around the room, frowning. Mrs. Hudson had let me in, but there was no sign of Holmes. His coat was still on its peg – he obviously hadn't gone out. There was a hurriedly stubbed out cigar on the ash tray in the corner, and…

Oh, God.

There, resting on the arm of the sofa, his morocco case, which I had hidden so many months ago now. Open. And empty.

I tried not to make assumptions. Maybe he had simply gone to bed early. Though I would have expected him to wait up for me, I was later than I had planned to be.

Holding my breath, I opened the door of his bedroom.

Holmes was sprawled in an untidy heap on top of the quilts, completely unconscious.

I breathed a shaky sigh of relief.

His arms were unmarked, and the only evidence of his drug paraphernalia was a layer of icy dusting on the floor by the foot of his bed where he had crushed syringe and ampoule to powder.

_December 25__th_

_**Anne**_

I didn't know how I had expected Holmes to behave on Christmas Day, but now, walking back from church, I found him dazzlingly high-spirited.

For him, that was.

I wasn't sure to what degree he was religious, but he had come along to church readily enough, and, in fact, had sung the hymns with surprising gusto. He had a very pleasant singing voice – low and melodious.

Sadly, even a Christmas miracle had not been enough to guarantee us snow, but a heavy frost had chilled London to the bone. We were well wrapped up in thick coats, scarves, hats and gloves. At least, I was. Holmes was striding along merely in his thin summer coat, wearing a scarf merely for the purpose of humouring me. And it wasn't as if he had any fat to insulate his waif-like frame. Nonetheless, his cheerful mood was, as usual, so infectious that I found it hard to be irritated with him.

"I must confess," I smiled. "I have gone to the liberty of buying you two Christmas presents."

He gave one of his sudden grins. "I have bought you three."

I stopped dead. "Holmes!"

"What?"

"But, Holmes… One of mine was meant as your birthday present… I can't believe you've…"

"Birthday?" Holmes asked, looking puzzled.

"Yes! Your birthday! The sixth of January!"

"Ha! I remember!" He frowned, perplexed. "How the deuce did you know when my birthday was?"

I shrugged, momentarily distracted. "I asked Lestrade."

Holmes rolled his eyes. "Typical."

He seemed to suddenly realise that we had stopped walking. "Come _along_, Anne! Your present should have been delivered while we were out! We're nearly there!"

"But, Holmes, I only…"

"Forget Christmas presents!" he told me severely, beckoning me imperiously. "Come on – do you wish me to catch a chill?"

His tone was teasing, and his eyes glinted, but I scowled and hurried to catch up.

We reached 221B, and shed our outer garments in the hall, before hurrying upstairs to the comfort of the roaring fire in the living room. Just as he was about to open the door, Holmes gave me a stern look. "Close your eyes."

"I'm sorry?"

"Close your eyes. It's a surprise."

I sighed and did so. Holmes apparently thought it insufficient, as he tied his scarf loosely about my eyes. I allowed myself the indulgence of inhaling his beautiful, musky scent, which was enough to make me feel dizzy.

It was Christmas, after all.

"Right then," Holmes said from inside, taking my hand. "Come in."

I stumbled forwards cautiously, and he shut the door behind me.

"Voila!"

He yanked the scarf back, and I gasped. "A piano! Oh, Holmes – it must have cost you a fortune!"

I turned back to him, eyes shining. He was smiling, obviously pleased with my reaction. "Thank you! It's beautiful!"

I ran my fingers over the shining wood and the delicate keys. I shook my head, glancing up. "Oh, Holmes… It's too much… Thank you… I don't know how to repay you…"

"Don't be ridiculous," he said quickly. "It's a Christmas present – no need to repay me. Now, come on, sit down. I recall you mentioned that I also have some gifts."

He sat down on the sofa, and I hastened to sit beside him.

"Well… This is…"

He didn't wait for my apologies, opening the first box immediately. His eyes lit up. "Oh, Anne – this is marvellous!"

He held up the case of delicate flasks, beakers and test tubes for my inspection.

"I noticed yours were becoming a little… Old?" I ventured.

Of one accord, our eyes drifted to the small side table where the broken and mouldering remains of an old experiment formed an unpleasant residue.

"Hm," he said non-committally. "But, anyway, Anne, these are honestly…"

It was _my_ turn to wave aside _his_ thanks. "Don't worry about it."

He smiled again, and drew out two packages from the depths of his coat. "I may as well give you both of these together. The second's not very good, I'm afraid, but…"

I glared at him teasingly, and confiscated the first package. I laughed as I opened it. "Brilliant!"

It was a small, powerful magnifying glass, with a delicate gold-plated handle. On several previous cases, we had ended up squabbling in a most un-professional way over who would use Holmes'.

"And…"

Holmes pushed the second package towards me and I opened that too, and gasped. A delicate necklace, with an intricate silver filigree bird as a charm, with a tiny seed pearl for an eye. It was exquisite.

"Holmes, this is…"

"Would you like me to put it on for you?" he asked quietly, his cheeks a little pink.

"Of course… Here…"

I handed it to him, and turned, sweeping my impatient curls out of the way, so he could loop it about my neck and fasten the little clasp. As soon as it was done, I whirled around to embrace him.

"Thank you so much… I don't deserve…"

"Of course you do," he said brusquely.

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence, and then I reached for his last present, praying he would like it. "This is a little… unorthodox, Holmes… Please don't be offended…"

The words died on my lips, because Holmes had just opened the package impatiently and his mouth had fallen open.

It was a simple pencil sketch, but it had taken me agonizing hours. I had wanted to get the tilt of his head just right, the expression perfect, and even so, I could not do him justice.

_**Holmes**_

I stared at the picture – the beautiful pencil portrait, of myself and Watson, sitting in front of the fire, as if he had only just vacated his seat. My eyes stung.

"Anne…"

_**Anne**_

His voice trailed away, and to my distress, I saw the glimmer of tears in his eyes. "Oh, Holmes, I didn't mean to…"

"No… It's just…"

He wiped at his eyes impatiently. "How did you…?"

"Oh… I heard you saying to Lestrade once that it was a shame that you had no proper pictures of yourself and Watson – aside from the illustrations in the Strand, that is, and I…"

"But…"

His fingers delicately traced the sketch-Watson's face. "How did you…?"

"There was a wedding photograph, in his room," I said quietly. "I copied from that, and…"

"It's wonderful," he said softly. He glanced up at me. "I never knew you were an artist, too."

I smiled. "I'm not really. Once, when the art mistress was ill, I had to cover her lessons, and found that although my paintings look like nothing on Earth, my pencil sketches are not at all bad."

"Anne, it's magnificent!"

I flushed. "I'm glad you like it."

He spent one more quiet minute in contemplation, and then set the drawing down and sprang to his feet. "Come on."

"What?"

"I fancy a little music. A duet."

My face lit up. "Holmes, that would be…"

He ushered me to the piano and gave me a chair, then leaping to fetch his Stradivarius from its place on the mantelpiece. "You start," he said, eyes glittering. When he was like this it was impossible not to watch him, sparkling with life, carrying everything and everyone along with merely the force of his personality. When he was like this, it was as if he eclipsed every other person in the world.

I did not question him, and began at once. I had not played for several months, and my fingers were a little unsure at first, but almost immediately the memory began to flow back to me. And then, just as I was establishing a melody, Holmes joined in.

I had never known any music to be so tortuously beautiful for the ears. Every hesitant note that I played was transformed, snatched off its feet and whirled about in the dizzy, awe-inspiring ecstasy of Holmes' performance. His eyes were half closed as his fingers moved impossibly fast about the strings, plucking, and adjusting, the bow merely an extension of his other arm as he played.

Suddenly I was jolted from my reverie by a knock at the door. My playing faltered, and Holmes went to answer it, violin tucked beneath his arm. "Aha! Mrs. Hudson – come in, come in…."

I still felt rather dizzy.

"I am terribly sorry for interrupting, Mr. Holmes, except that I brought Miss Chantrey and yourself a few mince pies, and I just thought… Well, I heard the lovely music, and…"

"Thank you very much, Mrs. Hudson," Holmes said graciously, relieving her of the massive tin of mince pies.

However, Mrs. Hudson did not seem inclined to leave promptly, buoyed by Holmes' good mood. And when she caught sight of the piano she was quite enchanted.

"Oh, Mr. Holmes, that is perfectly _lovely_! I used to play when I was such a little girl, and…"

"Do you want to try it?" I suggested.

Mrs. Hudson went a little pink. "Oh, no, Miss Chantrey, I couldn't… I don't want to impose…"

"Honestly, you're quite welcome…"

I stood a little shakily and between us we persuaded her to try it. Eventually Holmes snatched up his violin again and tempted her with a few notes, and she agreed to give up "just one Christmassy one".

I had taken my seat on the sofa to listen to their performance, but as soon as Mrs. Hudson had got started, Holmes flung down his violin, kicked it unceremoniously towards the Christmas tree (I gasped), and pulled me to my feet.

"Holmes? What are you…?"

"Dancing."

"Dancing – but I don't dance…"

"You do now."

To be honest, I should have expected that he'd be a fantastic dancer. But somehow, it surprised me all the same. He pulled me towards him, one hand on my waist, the other holding mine. I quickly grabbed his shoulder for support as he started leading me into a waltz.

"You're not bad," he remarked, his eyes sparkling.

"When did you…? I mean, I didn't think you would…"

"Well, to be perfectly honest, it's not my favourite pastime," he confessed. "But once, on a case – have you heard of the Rineston Hotel Affair?"

"No, I'm afraid not."

"Anyway, my investigations led me to Rineston Hotel, as you might have guessed, where I was forced to masquerade as a dancer for nigh on four weeks in order to gather information about the culprit. Watson was not terribly keen on practising with me, but Mrs. Hudson was remarkably obliging, were you not, Mrs. Hudson?"

She giggled fondly.

"Did you catch him?" I asked.

"Oh, of course," Holmes said blithely, as if the alternative was unthinkable. "He received eleven years in Bletchford Prison, if I remember correctly."

"Oh, Mr. Holmes, you are a terrible one for talking shop!" Mrs. Hudson reprimanded him.

Holmes gave a quick smile and then spun me around so fast that I nearly fell over – though he did not look at all unhappy when I had to seize his arm. "I apologise," he said quietly, bowing his head a little to make me feel slightly less dwarfed, as his six-and-a-bit-feet of skinny elegance moved gently with the music.

Our excessively close proximity was thrilling and terrifying at the same time. "I honestly… Do not mind…" I stammered stupidly, and he gave a little laugh.

Mrs. Hudson, evidently presuming that her work was done, rose softly from the piano and escaped, giving me an encouraging beam as she did so. Holmes laughed and rolled his eyes. "You would think she thinks that we don't notice her attempts at matchmaking."

I laughed too, though I was more focused on the fact that we were still dancing, despite the lack of music.

"Thank you," I said quietly.

"What for?"

"For everything. Letting me stay here. Sorting out my family. Buying me a piano."

"All part of the service," Holmes said quietly. Had he moved a little closer, or was it my imagination? By now I was finding it hard to think. I was becoming drunk on the smell of his tobacco, his cologne, the sweet muskiness that could only be his own fragrance… His eyes were sparkling silver, I could feel the warmth of his body against mine…

It was the most wonderful feeling in the whole w…

"HOLMES! Holmes!"

Running footsteps on the stairs – Holmes and I broke apart quickly, just as Lestrade burst into the room, panting.

"Holmes, I'm sorry to interrupt (Christmas Day and all that), but Mycroft wants you urgently – some problem with a few compromising letters and the French monarchy…"

Holmes' eyes lit up, and I couldn't help smiling. I could see him attempting to quell his excitement, turning to me.

"Miss Chantrey…?" he asked quietly. Knowing that people would surely not think it suitable if he called me by my first name, we had to address each other formally in front of others.

I could tell that he was itching to go, eyes shining at the prospect of a challenge, and I just couldn't resist him in this mood. I glanced regretfully at the beautifully decorated room, the tin of mince pies, the piano, thought of the lavish lunch that was waiting for us…

"Come on, then," I said, grabbing my new magnifying glass from the sofa. I was pleased to see that Holmes looked elated. "Just let me get my coat."

"Excellent!" Holmes seized his scarf, and taking me by the arm enthusiastically. Even that made my heart thud faster, and I mentally cursed my ridiculousness. "Let's go!"

**Author's Note:**

Woo! Another chapter done, and (I think) my longest one yet! Sorry about the bizarre 3-excerpt thing, but somehow I don't think Holmes or Anne would be likely to jump into a relationship quickly so I needed a way to skip a large amount of time quite rapidly!

Thank you as usual for all the beautiful reviews:

movieexpert1978 – you truly are PSYCHIC, or maybe great minds just think alike, because I'd just mentally perfected the dream conversation with Watson scene when I read your comment! Spooky…

Unidentifiable Alley-Cat – curse not your creativity, nurture it instead by… um… eating chocolate? Who knows? I will have to get the DVD because it has expired from iplayer… I love these random Sherlock conversations! :D

Anyway, I've had the novel idea of apologising for late chapters before they are late rather than after – SO - updating may not be so prompt in future days, because….

1. I have quite a bit of homework to do before I have to return to school :'( which I must do instead of writing this

2. Having returned from Wales for a few days, I will be going back shortly – cue packing chaos, etc…

3. ALL HELL IS BREAKING LOOSE at home because we are finally getting an extension so me and my 12 year old sister can have our own rooms, but unfortunately now the house is full of dust and builders, the contents of the kitchen has invaded the lounge, and Mum is on the edge of toxic insanity. Therefore what with cement mixers and very loud builder-radios, writing will become even trickier over the next few days

Right, excuses over!

So, as usual I will end my ramblings with a plea for reviews, but also for IDEAS, since I need something reasonably drastic to drag Holmes and Anne closer together, because left to their own devices they would probably pussyfoot around their feelings for each other for the next ten years or so. Hence, drama needed, and I'm wondering if yet another kidnap would just be a bit too boring and repetitive – who knows? So any suggestions would be most welcome – I am certainly not above accepting help!

Thank you, and I love you all!


	16. Chapter 16 Mycroft, Morphine and Mark

_**Anne**_

"Holmes?" I asked quietly, as the cab trundled down the cobbled streets. Lestrade had left us to it, no doubt wishing to return to his Christmas dinner. "Are you all right?"

He gave me another one of those sudden smiles. "Why shouldn't I be? I've got a case, haven't I?"

"That's not what I mean," I said softly. "What about Mycroft?"

I could see his mouth tense a little, but he made no other sign. "I'm sure that whatever our difficulties, we should be able to work as colleagues together. Refusing the case would be cutting off my nose to spite my face – Mycroft knows my weakness for work; if I declined it he would know full well I would be only doing so for the purpose of snubbing him."

"When was the last time you spoke to him?"

He hesitated for a moment, and then shrugged. "About five or six months after Watson's death." He counted the months out unconcernedly on his fingers. "Then… about a year and a half after that, I returned to practising as a detective. I had probably only been working again for a month or so when we met."

"Ah. And what was the err… nature of this conversation?"

"I think it comprised mainly of my cursing his very existence and him receiving several nasty punches to the jaw," Holmes said wearily.

I made a face. "Not good, then?"

"No. Then again, we never got particularly well anyway."

I frowned. "But Watson never mentioned…."

Holmes absent-mindedly lit his pipe and chewed on it thoughtfully. "Watson was many things, but he was hardly talented in the field of accurate observation. I have no doubt that he faithfully copied down our conversations almost verbatim, but he sadly failed to notice the uncomfortable atmosphere between us."

There was a short silence, and then, quite unexpectedly, he took my hand and squeezed it. "I'm sorry. About ruining your Christmas."

I laughed. "Believe me, there's no one I would rather be spending Christmas, and if you happen to be on a case, then so be it."

He smiled slightly. "Thank you. Though I am a little disappointed that we had to cut the dancing short."

Before I could properly process this, the cab stopped, and Holmes leapt out in order to assist me. "Where are we?" I asked curiously.

He smiled. "You tell me."

I glanced around. Holmes had been attempting to educate me on the layout of the London streets over the past few months, and I was making very gradual progress.

"Pall Mall?" I suggested weakly.

"Exactly."

I finally caught on. "Oh! The Diogenes Club!"

Holmes smiled, like a teacher praising his pupil. "Very good, though Mycroft will undoubtedly be in his private residences at this time of day."

I shot a curious glance at the building opposite the one whose door Holmes was knocking at. It was fairly uninteresting in appearance, save for a single large window through which one could peer into a large, luxurious, and sparsely occupied room, but even as I watched, a carriage drew up and deposited a rather haughty looking young man by the door. He got out and, after paying the driver, passed silently through the door and into the club. How strange, I mused, that some people preferred utter silence over the rowdy happiness of Christmas Day. Then again…

The door opened, and Holmes beckoned me in with him. Mycroft's rooms were not very large, but eminently luxurious. I found myself walking excessively slowly and carefully, should I stumble and upset an antique vase, or damage one of the many tiny ornaments. The carpet was very thick, and stretched wall-to-wall.

Holmes seemed to know his way around, and we soon found ourselves in a stuffy (albeit sizeable) study. Mycroft Holmes was standing by the window, looking out over the street.

"Sit down," he said languidly, as we entered, and we did so. I felt a little overawed in the midst of such opulence.

He turned to face us and I had chance to observe him properly.

He was probably the same height (maybe a touch shorter) than Holmes, but evidently was fond of food to a far greater degree than his brother. His body was baggy and bloated, and he reminded somewhat of a large, greedy toad, with slightly protuberant eyes, and somewhat clammy skin. His eyes, however, were a light fog-grey – identical to Holmes' when he was at the height of his deductive powers.

I suddenly realised that I was observing him, he was doing the same to me, and undoubtedly he was deducing far more from his observation that I was from mine. I flushed awkwardly, and recalled that when I had done so during Holmes' examination of me, he had given that strange little bow, and apologised. Mycroft Holmes did nothing of the sort, merely continuing analysing me until he decided that he had gleaned all the information possible. Finally, he nodded curtly, and outstretched his hand.

"Sherlock."

He was the first person I had ever heard address Holmes by his first name alone, and somehow it seemed to unnerve Holmes a little; he twitched his head to the side, as if the word, like a persistent fly, was bothering him.

"Mycroft."

"And who is this young lady?" Mycroft asked. Somehow, I received the impression that he didn't particularly care about my identity.

"My colleague – Miss Anne Chantrey."

Mycroft nodded vaguely, and immediately began to enumerate the details of the case to us.

It transpired that the indiscreet letters had been written by a young lady of the French monarchy, to the son of an important foreign diplomat. Unfortunately, a highly confidential and vital treaty was in the process of being considered, and such a letter could tip the balance unfavourably for the British government if an extortionate sum was not paid to the villain in possession of the document. Hence, the letter had to be recovered. The most likely suspect, Mycroft explained, was the manservant of the diplomat, Jacques du Pellier, who (rumour had it) had recently fled to London.

"Why not merely contact the local police?" Holmes asked idly, frowning at his notes. "It seems you have all but solved the mystery."

Mycroft waved his hand impatiently. "But, Sherlock, the police are so _unsubtle_, so obvious! And if the manservant suspects that we are on his track, he will doubtless either flee the country, or pass the letter on to one of his associates. We must avoid this at all costs, and so I thought you might be the man for the job. You have a certain ability to… err… blend into the background, shall I say?"  
Holmes nodded curtly, and stood. I did too, guessing that the meeting was at an end. "I understand. Hopefully I shall return with news of a positive conclusion to the matter soon, Mycroft."

They shook hands, Mycroft nodded his head to me, and we turned to go.

"By the way, I'm glad you've found a replacement for Watson," Mycroft said as we left. "It's about time that you…"

Holmes moved so fast that it was shocking. One moment he was by the door, the next Mycroft was reeling backwards, clutching a bloodied nose, and Holmes was standing before him, shaking all over with barely suppressed rage. His face was very pale, his fists clenched. When he spoke, his voice was trembling.

"Nothing and no one will ever replace Watson."

And then he was gone, the door slamming behind him. Mycroft pulled out a handkerchief to stem the flow of blood from his nose, and I moved to help him. "Are you all right…? I'm so sorry…"

He gave a hoarse laugh. "Why should you apologise for his behaviour? He's _my_ brother."

"Here… Sit down… Have my hanky…"

He waved away my help. "I'm quite fine, honestly."

He accepted my handkerchief, impatiently wiping away the blood.

"Shall I call a doctor?"

"Don't be ridiculous," he said bluntly, his voice slightly muffled.

His grey eyes seemed to be piercing me even more thoroughly than before, and I glanced away, embarrassed.

"You like him, don't you? Sherlock."

I flushed scarlet. "Of course I like him – he's been a good friend to me, and…"

"Most people don't like him, you know."

I didn't know where this conversation was going, but I wanted to end it. I wanted to go outside and see where Holmes had gone – to check that he was wasn't going to do anything stupid – but those intelligent eyes in that queer flabby face held me captive.

"Well… I understand that he can sometimes come across as… brusque… but…"

Mycroft snorted. "Brusque? He's nothing but a cold shell."

I glanced away quickly, not wanting him to see the anger in my face.

"He is not a cold shell," I said, forcing my words to be calm and even. "He just doesn't want to show off his emotions to…"

He gave another harsh laugh. "Miss Chantrey, why deceive yourself? Whatever feelings you may have for my brother, he himself is incapable of experiencing equal emotion."

I ignored the reference to my "feelings", merely thanking God that Holmes was less talented that his brother, and pressed on. "I really ought to go…"

"Such a relationship, even if were established," he continued, his eyes fixed on me. "Would almost certainly destroy him."

"What are you talking about…? I…"

"Did he tell about his childhood?" Mycroft asked sharply. I blinked in surprise.

"How did you…? He did, yes…"

Mycroft's eyes flashed. "Interesting. What did he tell about our mother?"

I flushed. "Well… That she… um… Died in a mental asylum…"

"Did he tell you how she died?"

I felt angry and frustrated, as if he thought I was a dim child whom he was trying to guide to a correct answer. "No, as a matter of fact, he did not specify the exact details!"

"She hanged herself," Mycroft bluntly. "And I think it would be beneficial if you knew that such things run in the family, to some extent."

"What do you mean?"

"I didn't think you were simple!" Mycroft snapped back. "These harmless black moods of Sherlock's occasionally manifest themselves in a slightly more dangerous way."

I felt the colour drain from my face. "You mean…" I coughed in embarrassment, remembering the terrible scars on Holmes' arms. "You mean he has tried to commit suicide?"

The eyes stayed on me, and I looked away, feeling sick. I had seen the marks on Holmes' arms, of course, but that he had ever felt so alone, so desperate, so hopeless, that he had wanted to take his own life, somehow made me want to cry.

"Why are you telling me this?" I asked wearily.

"To warn you."

"You didn't tell Watson."

It wasn't a question.

He shrugged. "The circumstances were different."

Somehow I sensed the bizarre conversation was at an end. I stood to go, and he nodded to me, before turning away and reaching for his newspaper.

In a daze, I left the room, descended the stairs, and emerged out into the street. Holmes was standing by the hansom, his face still very pale. He glanced up at me as I came over, looking like a small, guilty schoolboy.

"Is he all right?" he asked quietly.

"Yes," I replied bluntly.

He hesitated, knowing that an outburst of some sort was about to be forthcoming. "What is it?"

"Is it true, that you've…" I lowered my voice for a moment. "You've tried to… to kill yourself?"

He went very still. "Why should it matter?"

He sounded angry, but I persevered. I was not going to be bullied into silence. "Have you?"

He snorted, and looked anywhere but at me. "What are you going to do – tell the police?"

"Of course not. I just want to know."

He sighed deeply, as if the whole subject was not only distasteful (which it undoubtedly was), but also spectacularly uninteresting. "If you must know – once when I was at university, and once about a year or so ago."

He gave me an inquiring look, as if to ask if that were sufficient information, and gave another sigh when he realised out that I wanted to know more.

"The first time was not particularly… serious, in a way."

"I should say that attempting… suicide…" I was still unwilling to say the word. "Is rather serious whatever the circumstances."

He waved his hand unconcernedly. "I was bored. Bored of life, I suppose, if you are inclined to melodrama."

I stayed silent, and after a short pause, he continued. "A medical acquaintance of mine had been bragging about a new form of morphine that they had recently been developing in the labs of the college, and how it could kill a man within hours. We had a slight disagreement over the fact, and I took some in order to prove my point."

"You _what_?"

"I think it hardly qualifies as a suicide attempt, on balance," he continued vaguely. "Though I suppose I had weighed up the possibility of my demise, and decided it did not qualify as a valid reason to cease the experiment. Anyway, if I lived, I would have proved my point, so the balance was fairly even."

He had lit up his pipe, and was staring into space. "As it was, I came around three days later, with nothing to show for my ordeal save a mild headache. I confess that I was a trifle disappointed, but I had certainly won the argument."

I felt (perhaps not unreasonably) very angry with him for his blatant disregard for his own damn_ life_, but I tried to keep my mouth shut.

"The second time was a little under a year after Watson died." He puffed out a little smoke. He looked utterly casual, now leaning against the wall of the terraced house, legs crossed, inhaling deeply.

"How did you…?"

I hesitated, biting my lip, but he didn't seem uncomfortable about talking about it.

"I ran a bath," he said wistfully. "Injected myself with all the morphine and cocaine I had managed to secret away, and slit my wrists."

I turned away, feeling sick again.

"And then," he said, an edge of anger creeping into his voice. "My dear brother, whose visits to my rooms I can count on the fingers of one hand, decided to see how I was _coping_. He found me."

"But… why did you…?"

"Why?" His eyes were suddenly aflame. "Because I was alone, and I could see no point of continuing to live. Because sometimes that…" His voice faltered for a moment. "That… darkness… is just too much. And yet my brother just _had _to come and find me – I suppose that I should be grateful that he didn't hand me over the police," he added bitterly.

Something clicked in my brain. "That's why you resent him so much, isn't it?" I asked quietly. "Not just from when you were children. You were angry with him for not letting you die."

He refused to look at me, blowing a stream of smoke from between his thin lips.

"Why didn't you tell me?" I asked, trying to keep my voice even.

He turned to me, apparently bemused. "I thought it was hardly relevant."

"Hardly relevant, Holmes? That you've twice…" I was irritated with myself for being too weak to say the words. "Tried to take your own life?"

"Well, when did you want me to bring it up in conversation?" he fired back. "Good morning, my name's Sherlock Holmes, and I'm trying to solve the mystery of your murderous family, and, by the way - I ought to tell you that I've tried to commit suicide twice, just in case the information is any of business whatsoever, which I can't see it is, to be honest."

The jibe about my family hurt, but I ignored it. "For God's sake, Holmes, I thought…"

"Whatever you thought, it was wrong!" he snarled at me. "I didn't want you to know because I didn't want your ridiculous sentimental _pity_." He spat out the word.

Sometimes I thought that I might even be falling in love with Sherlock Holmes.

But sometimes I _hated _him.

"Is my feeling sympathy for you so repellent?" I retorted. "Then again, I suppose you don't want to be in contact with any _human emotions_, they might _cloud your judgement_…"

"Well, God knows I'm just a cold, calculating automaton, so I'm sure I would never even be capable of…"

"Don't be like that! I didn't mean…"

"I know exactly what you meant," Holmes said, his voice calm and icy. "You're just like the rest of them."

"What exactly do you mean by that?"

He snorted impatiently, and suddenly stood up straight. "Take the cab." He gave an imperious wave of his hand. "I'm going to buy some more cigarettes."

We both knew full well that the shops would be shut, but I said nothing. I bit my lip, and went to get into the hansom.

_**Holmes**_

The cab rolled off down the road, and I slumped against the wall. I knew that I'd been unfair – hideously unfair, but I was just _fed up _of people poking their noses into my business. It seemed that they wouldn't be happy with me until they stripped away all my layers of defence and then paraded me through London, just to prove that I was human after all. Couldn't they see – couldn't Anne see – that some things you just wanted to stay hidden? Why must I keep baring my soul to keep her happy?

Part of me wanted to go back inside and ask Mycroft what the hell he'd been thinking of, ruining our Christmas Day, but somehow I sensed that this wasn't a good idea.

I hunched up my shoulders against the cold and chewed my lip irritably.

_**Anne**_

I got out of the hansom, thanked and paid the cabman, and walked the short distance down the street to 221B. Several people wished me "Merry Christmas!" as I walked, and I made an effort to smile.

Why couldn't Holmes see that I was only concerned about him because I _cared_? What was so unreasonable about that? I realised that it would be a difficult thing for him to talk about, but why did he have to be so dismissive, as if the whole thing was of no consequence? Why did he have to hide behind that mask of indifference and anger every time I tried to get close?

I was annoyed with Mycroft, for sabotaging our Christmas Day.

I was annoyed with myself, for still caring so much about Holmes, even when he behaved like an idiot.

And I was annoyed with Holmes, for being a stupid, egotistical, selfish, reckless, irresponsible _fool_, and because even _now _I was frantically worrying about his safety.

I sighed, taking off my coat in the hall, before ascending the stairs wearily. I opened the door to the sitting room, and was surprised to find that there was someone already there.

"Mark?"

The familiar figure sitting by the fire rose and came to greet me. He looked much the same as he had two years ago, except perhaps a little more tanned, his blue eyes smiling.

I had first met Mark Collingwood when I moved to Rybury after my father's death. We attended the village school together, and had been best friends since the age of seven. So maybe it was natural that when we grew older, we began courting. By the time I was twenty, it seemed perfectly certain that we would eventually get married and settle down together. Of course, I would have lost control of any property I owned, and there would have been other business considerations to think about, but somehow that all seemed a little irrelevant in the face of our love.

And then, two years ago, he had proposed, on Valentine's Day, with roses and a beautiful diamond ring.

And for some utterly inexplicable reason, I had panicked and said no.

Or not exactly "no", more "give me some time to think about it".

And being a perfect gentleman, he had not only given me time to think about it, but also space. A great deal of space, having left for America to seek his fortunes a month later. I'd always felt guilty about turning him down (God knows that he would have been within his rights to push me on the subject), and I couldn't explain why I'd done it, but I had just suddenly been flooded with fear at the idea of being tied down for the rest of my life.

I realised that if I had accepted, I would almost certainly have never met Holmes.

"Anne! It's been rather a while, hasn't it?"

"Yes – lovely to see you…"

We hugged, clumsily, as we always had done. I was almost disappointed to find that there was none of that spark that I felt when Holmes and I embraced. When Holmes and I embraced, I could barely breathe. God save me, it would be so much simpler if only I could be obsessed with the right person.

I laughed awkwardly. "Mark – I didn't expect this…"

"Neither did I really… Popped up to Rybury to wish you a merry Christmas the other day, and got the full story from Violet and George. Caught the train down as soon as I could, and I've been in London the last few days, trying to find this Mr. Holmes you've been staying with. Apparently he's a bit of a celebrity round here!"

"He is a bit, yes…"

"Where is he, then?"

Mark looked around in bewilderment, as if he were expecting the detective to pop up out of nowhere, and his manner was so perplexed, so endearingly familiar, so _not-Holmes _that it was very comforting, somehow.

"Oh, he's out… You know, on a case…"

Mark raised his eyebrows comically. "A case? On Christmas Day?"

I shrugged, smiling weakly. "He's quite irrepressible."

"So I've heard…"

He gave me a gentle smile, but I was sad to find that it didn't make my heart beat fast, as it used to. "How are you? I'm so sorry – I was away having a good time, when you really needed me here…"

"Oh, I'm fine… Holmes looked after me…"

Why, oh why, oh why, did _Holmes _manage to introduce himself into every blasted conversation?

Mark looked a little surprised. "Really? I didn't think he was the caring type."

I felt like giving a sharp retort, but restrained myself. "Oh, he's really very pleasant once you get to know him…"

It was then that Holmes crashed into the sitting room, with his legs apparently bound together.

_**Holmes**_

I was rather surprised to find an unknown man in my consulting room, but with my feet tangled inextricably in my scarf, it was all I could do to stay upright as I tried to free myself.

"Um… Holmes… This is Mark Collingwood, an old friend of mine – Mark, this is Sherlock Holmes…"

He stretched out a hand. "Hello, pleased to meet you…"

My eyes took him in a moment.

He had curly dark brown hair, and he was tall, though still an inch or so from my not inconsiderable height. He was, on the other hand, a great deal more broad-shouldered and well built than I. His clean-shaven face was pleasant enough, and gave the impression of sincerity and honesty. His eyes were a pale brown.

The hand that I had shaken had been rough and callused – here was a man who worked with his hands, though the fingernails were perfectly clean, almost to point of appearing manicured. So he had not been working recently. He had none of the military bearing which had struck me so when I had first met Watson, but he was very tanned, with slightly peeling skin on his forehead the clue to recent sun burn. Obviously, due to the time of year, there had been no such strong sun in England recently, and by the very slight accent, I guessed he had recently returned from… America. That would also account for his suspicious absence during the crisis of six months ago.

He and Anne were standing close together, their bodies comfortably angled towards each other, so their friendship had certainly been an intimate one. Considering Anne's age, he would most likely be a childhood friend, since her life had hardly been long enough to establish such a close relationship only in adulthood. There was also very slight, pale indentation on the bridge of his nose, indicating that he normally wore glasses, but had for some reason removed them upon this occasion.

I frowned. Why? Obviously he was very young for his eyesight to be deteriorating, but even so… He didn't want Anne to know that he wore glasses…

A snippet of a conversation I had heard in a wardrobe smelling strongly of mothballs came back to me.

_ "Anne, I always knew we'd eventually get you married off!"_

_ "Elsie!"_

_ "For a while I thought that Mark Collingwood…" _

Of course.

I found myself considering him in a quite new, and unforgivably irrational, light. I was ridiculously pleased that I was a little taller, and irritated by the healthy tan that my ludicrously pale skin could never hope to achieve.

Had they ever been engaged to be married, then?

My heart began to beat harder. Somehow it seemed unreasonable to think that Anne had never been in a romantic relationship – clearly she was a very attractive woman, but all the same, the thought made me unexpectedly nettled.

And why had he been in America? Clearly their parting had not been an uncomfortable affair, since they seemed perfectly happy in one another's company.

Time to think about that later.

"Pleased to meet you too," I said smoothly, shaking his proffered hand, though I released it as quickly as was possible without appearing to be being deliberately uncivil.

"Anne tells me you… er… have a case…?"

Not unintelligent, but hardly particularly bright.

"Yes, I do."

I made a swift decision not to elaborate, and finally managed to free my legs from the scarf. "I'll be back in a moment…"

With that I escaped into the quiet darkness of my bedroom.

_**Anne**_

I looked after Holmes, wondering vaguely if he were still exasperated with me. His tone, which would have seemed indifferent to the casual observer, had held a faint edge of irritation, which, oddly enough, had appeared to be directed at Mark, rather than me.

Mark showed no sign of having noticed it, which was hardly surprising.

"Seems a nice enough fellow," he said cheerfully, resuming his seat by the fire. I specifically recognised that it was Holmes' chair, and felt mildly irritated, for no particular reason.

"Anyway, how are you doing?"

Hence followed ten minutes of rather dull and commonplace chatter, which I enjoyed nonetheless, because it was so pleasant to have my old friend back again. For some bizarre reason, I felt strangely guilty at enjoying myself so much, but after all, it wasn't as if Holmes _owned _me. I was _allowed_ to have other friends.

However often I told myself that, it still didn't stop me feeling guilty.

"Oh – I nearly forgot – I've got a Christmas present for you!"

"Oh, Mark – you shouldn't have… I haven't got anything for you…"

"No matter – here…"

He handed me a small package, and I opened it to reveal a small jewellery box. Inside was a small golden heart, upon a fine chain.

"Oh, that's lovely!" I said reflexively, and realised a second later that I was actually telling the truth. It _was_ beautiful.

"Shall I… erm… Put it on for you?"

"Oh… yes… Of course…"

I fumbled blindly with the clasp on the necklace Holmes had given me, and reluctantly removed it, as I would undoubtedly have looked rather foolish wearing two necklaces. Mark flushed. "Oh, I didn't mean you had to…"

"No, honestly…"

I turned, and he fastened the gold chain neatly. "There. It suits you."

"Thank you…"

Holmes' door suddenly opened, and a hunchbacked beggar of about sixty emerged. His face was grimy, wrinkled and haggard, his chin partially covered by a dirty, straggly white beard. I flushed darkly at once, hoping for a moment that he would not notice the change in necklace, but I knew that nothing could escape him. However, he made no comment on it.

Mark's chin dropped. "Dear God, that's…"

I cast a critical eye over him. "Teeth?" I asked curtly.

Holmes gave a grotesque imitation of a smile, showing off the terrible crooked false teeth - his own teeth were far too straight to be passed off as those of a street vagrant. His silver eyes were the only thing that revealed his identity.

"Who are you, where are you going, and why are going there?"

It was my typical question upon seeing him in disguise.

"I'm a homeless beggar," Holmes said tersely. "I'm going to Port Street, and I looking for Jacques du Pellier."

"That's amazing…" Mark stammered. "You honestly look…"

"Do you think you'll find him there?" I asked.

Holmes shrugged expressively. It looked rather odd with the hunchback. "Always a good place to start. If he were lodging somewhere more traditional, I have no doubt that Mycroft and his various minions would have tracked him down by now. No – they need me for the dirty work."

"But Holmes – it's Christmas Day," I protested weakly.

He frowned, seemingly unable to see the problem. "It makes little difference to a homeless beggar. They are still homeless, and still likely to chat to a fellow human in the same plight, surely?"

I sighed. "No, Holmes, I meant…."

"I probably won't be back in time for dinner – or lunch – it all seems to change about on Christmas Day, doesn't it? And possibly not breakfast, either. So don't wait for me. Nice to have met you, Mr. Collingwood."

And with that parting remark, he was gone.

**Author's Note:**

Yeah – sorry. For excuses, see previous Author's Note.

Once more, I'm not particularly happy with this chapter, but that's probably because I just hate writing Anne and Holmes when they're not getting on!

Thank you for all the advice – and as you can see, a Love Rival has been installed! I'd sort of unintentionally mentioned some randomer called Mark Collingwood before, so I thought blending him in wouldn't be too hard. Also, the random morphine incident was partially based on when someone (I think it's Stamford) comments that Holmes would give a friend a little of the latest vegetable alkaloid to observe its effects, but in fairness would also take it himself!

Thank you also as usual for all the reviews:

Unindentifiable Alley-Cat – I know, it's so sad that so many people have never experienced the wonderfulness that is Sherlock Holmes (sob). My little sister point blank refuses to read the books purely because they're "old", which greatly saddens me, but she has enjoyed the BBC series so maybe there is hope for her yet!

As for excuses for the Next Chapter, I'm back at school on Thursday so unhappily writing will have to take a back seat for a while. Sorry Not to mention that my will-power has so far been insufficient in forcing myself to do homework, so have now got less a day and a half to do three Maths practice papers, a French essay thing, Chemistry revision and a Biology project (eek). Wish me luck!

Thank you for reading as usual, and please keep reviewing! x


	17. Chapter 17 Notes and February 14th

_December 26th_

_**Holmes**_

It was approximately seven minutes past four in the morning when I returned to 221B. To my surprise, a lamp was still burning faintly in the consulting room, and when I turned it up, I saw that Anne was curled up like a cat on the sofa, fast asleep.

I was intrigued to find that I felt a strange pang of guilt in my stomach. Why was I feeling guilty? I had not asked Anne for wait up for me – in fact, I had expressly told her not to do so.

Yet I still felt guilty. Fascinating.

I had merely returned back to Baker Street briefly to pick up a few coins, which I could trade for information from my fellow homeless, though now I was here I supposed that a few hours of sleep might not go amiss. I scooped up some money, and then hesitated doubtfully, glancing at Anne. I would no doubt be gone by the time she awoke, and I didn't want to cause her unnecessary concern.

I scribbled a quick note and left it on the desk for her, before deciding to turn in. Just as I was about to escape into my room, Anne gave an odd little moan, frowning in her sleep.

I stopped dead. I had experienced enough nightmares myself to recognise the outward symptoms when I saw them. But after all, what could I do? I didn't want to wake her and face the inevitable questioning, but neither did I want to leave her in the merciless clutches of a hostile dream world.

As I hesitated, she twisted a little on the sofa, and something like a sob caught in her throat.

_"Holmes…"_

I jumped. It sounded almost like a plea for help. Unless she were having some sort of nightmare about me? I bit my lip. I rarely troubled myself by considering the effect I had on others, but even if I had, I would never have thought that Anne would have any fear of me…

Her face contorted again, and even as I watched, a single tear ran down her smooth, pale cheek. I watched it, hypnotised. _"Holmes… Please… Keep talking to me…"_

I paused. Wasn't that what she had said to me after I had been shot? She was having a nightmare about me being _shot_?

Almost unconsciously, I went to kneel beside the sofa, and placed a shaking hand on her shoulder. I didn't know what to do, but I knew that I didn't like it – didn't like her crying. "Anne… I'm not hurt… I'm here…"

To my surprise and embarrassment, she nuzzled her face into my hand, and I jerked it away at once. Her eyelids fluttered for a moment, and then she fell back into a deeper sleep.

I stood slowly, unsure of what had just happened. Whatever I had instinctively done, it seemed to have worked, because her face was peaceful now. But the emotions swirling through me were frighteningly alien, and I forced them to the back of my mind. I had a case to focus on.

My eyes were suddenly drawn to the chain about her neck. I frowned. The chain was gold, not silver. I gently reached for it and found the charm – a tiny, beautiful gold heart.

It was hardly surprising really – after all, she and Mark Collingwood clearly had a great deal of history behind them, but all the same, the sight of the necklace that had replaced mine made an unreasonable surge of anger rise in me.

Why should I be angry? She had every right to wear whatever jewellery she chose, after all!

I shook the thoughts from my head.

She had goose flesh on her arms, and so I draped a spare blanket over her, before proceeding to my bedroom, still trying to avoid thinking. I removed my tatty shoes and collapsed backwards on to the bed, staring up at the ceiling.

I managed with very little sleep in general, because, truth be told, I disliked the experience. For one, although I tended to wake at the slightest noise, I always had the irrational fear that somehow, even in the safest possible surroundings, someone would seek to harm me when I was at my most vulnerable. Secondly, I hated the business of actually falling into slumber.

For a while, I would lie there, tossing and turning, even when I was most exhausted. Then eventually I would allow my eyes to close. It always took me a great deal of effort to stop thinking of the time as an opportunity for complicated thought. Then my reasoning would slip askew, and, terrifyingly, even the simplest thoughts would become confused and convoluted. For a few horrifying minutes, my brain could not make the least sense of the world, and I felt as though I were going mad.

And then I would fall asleep.

Sighing, I forced myself to close my eyes. In one and a half hours, I would return to the streets, and to my temporary occupation as a beggar.

_**Anne**_

I woke with a groan and a yawn. My muscles were stiff after my night on the sofa, and my dreams had been dark and frightening. At one point, I could have sworn that I was kneeling in the drawing room at Holston Hall, cradling Holmes to me, except that he was dead, his silver eyes dim and unseeing…

I shuddered, and rose quickly. It was then that I realised that I was covered in a blanket that smelled exquisitely of Holmes. I was unwilling to take a large lungful of the scent in case he happened to enter the room, and so instead I went to the door of his room, with the intention of asking him how his investigation had gone. I had intended to wait up for him, but clearly fatigue had got the better of me.

"Holmes?"

I knocked on the door, but when there was no answer, I realised that he must have already left. Opening the door gingerly, I found his clearly slept-in bed, the quilts twisted into a ball, the sheets crumpled, and the pillows scattered about the floor.

For an insane moment I considered going to lie on his mattress, just to know what it felt like, but reason returned a few seconds later, and I retreated, shutting the door hurriedly.

It was then that I spotted the note on the desk.

_Case progressing at reasonable pace. Hope well._

_ SH_

_ P.S. Please add ten cubic centimetres of water to pale blue solution in small flask on windowsill in bedroom._

_ P.P.S. Wash hands afterwards. Solution is highly toxic._

I smiled stupidly, and then considered my plan of action for the coming day. Holmes clearly was far too wrapped up in his case to care for a great deal of company, and so I decided to first take a box of Christmas treats to Lily-the-maid's house, and then to go and pay a visit to Mark at his hotel. After all, he had given me the address and his room number, so evidently he was anticipating a visit.

I hesitated for a moment. It was easy to look forward to seeing Mark – he was undemanding and considerate and predictable, but somehow, even when Holmes was not physically present, it was hard to banish him from my mind. Maybe I found it easier to care for Mark so much because my mind judged it to be allowable. Whereas with Holmes, it was so obviously so impossible, so foolish, that…

I sighed wearily, and decided to write back to him, just in case he happened to return while I was out.

_ Dear SH,_

_ Glad you are making headway with case. I am well, thank you. Any definite leads at present? Do you need any assistance? Are you eating regularly?_

_ AC_

_December 27__th_

When I woke, I immediately dressed and descended the stairs, hoping to find Holmes. Once again, his bed showed signs of him having occupied it (albeit briefly) during the night, but of the detective himself there was no sign.

There was, however, another note.

_No, not at present._

_ SH_

_ P.S. May be back for supper._

I sighed in despair at him. He honestly was intolerable.

At that moment there came a knock on the door. I murmured, "Come in," and Mark opened the door cautiously, giving me a warm smile.

"Anne! How are you?"

"Very well, thank you…"

We embraced inelegantly, and I spent a sad moment reflecting on Holmes' reluctance for human contact. Having been in his arms several times now, I could testify that it was a very pleasant experience, but on the whole Holmes seemed to avoid physical contact like the plague. I would not have thought myself a person who craved especially close proximity to other human beings, but next to Holmes it felt as if I tendered a violent obsession for it. At the conclusion of particularly problematic cases it was not uncommon for female clients to rush to embrace the handsome detective who had disposed of all their problems with a click of his fingers, but more often than not he would recoil in horror and move immediately to extricate himself from the situation. Even when we accidentally brushed shoulders during a case, for example when we were both anxious to examine a possible clue as closely as possible, he would flinch away from my touch with an apologetic grimace.

On the other hand, Mark was not at all averse to human contact, and I could not help but notice that our hug lasted for a few moments longer than was customary for a greeting. I eventually withdrew, slightly ruffled and flustered, but he merely laughed and smoothed a strand of hair back from my face. The sensation was surprisingly pleasant.

"What is the great detective up to today, then?" he questioned teasingly.

I shrugged, trying not to show exactly how hurt I was that I barely had a clue. "I'm not sure, to be honest. Out… investigating."

If Mark was surprised, he hid it well. "Well, in that case, are you available to give me a tour of London?"

I raised my eyebrows. "If you really want."

"Definitely."

Despite myself, I smiled. "I'll get my coat."

xxx

_**Anne**_

I waited up until past midnight, and eventually concluded that he was not coming back for supper after all. Oddly, I was not as irritated with him as I had thought I might be, partly because I had half-expected him not to return, and partly because I had spent a genuinely enjoyable day with Mark, exploring. I had forgotten just how nice it could be to be in the company of a remotely _normal _human being.

I hesitated before going up to bed, and scribbled a reply to his note.

_Dear SH,_

_ Please eat – your brain will be of no use if you starve it. _

_ Is this case remotely close to a conclusion yet – received a vague telegram from Somerset this afternoon concerning an odd burglary. What should I reply? Hope all is going well._

_ AC_

I paused, and then added a postscript.

_P.S. Are you avoiding me?_

_December 28__th_

I fairly downstairs, anxious to see if Holmes had popped in during the night. He had. I felt a childish thrill of excitement at seeing the note, as I had as a young girl upon waking up to find it was Christmas morning.

_As you are no doubt aware, I am disguised as a homeless beggar. Looking well fed will no doubt ruin my deception. As you were asking if you could help, would you mind going to see Mycroft, and asking him if the diplomat owned a Siamese cat? He will be at his offices in Whitehall – give your name as Miss Louisa, and you will be admitted. You have my thanks,_

_ SH _

_ P.S. Have read news of Somerset case in newspapers other vagrants are sleeping on. Inspector in charge of case is an unimaginative halfwit. Will do him good to solve a case by himself for once. Tell him to question the second parlourmaid again. _

_ P.P.S. Do I have any reason to be avoiding you?_

I bit my lip, irritated by the ambiguity of the final sentence. Answering a probing question with another question was a favourite habit of Holmes', and I was as yet unsure as to what this latest update meant.

As well as that, his request for help had surprised, gratified and worried me in equal measure. I had not expected that he would ask for assistance, and was immensely satisfied that apparently I was needed after all, but was also anxious at the prospect of going to see Mycroft. The man was intimidating at the best of times, let alone after the odd conversation we had had last time we had met.

Never mind. I had no intention of denying Holmes' request, and would just have to grit my teeth and deal with the matter as professionally as I could.

I scribbled a quick message to Mark, which I pinned to the outside of the door, stating that I was out at present, but would meet him in a small restaurant near one of the parks we had visited on the previous day. Then I donned various layers of warm clothing, including a scarf of Holmes', which smelled deliciously of his cologne, and went outside to hail a hansom.

xxx

_**Anne**_

I arrived at Mycroft's offices and was predictably struck by how cold, clinical and unwelcoming the place seemed. I entered, spoke to an expressionless assistant, identifying myself as Miss Louisa, and was admitted into the inner sanctum of Mycroft's office.

The man himself was frowning at a sheaf of papers upon his desk, adding furious notes every now and again.

"Come in and sit down, Miss Chantrey," he said, after a moment. He scribbled a last scrawling word or two, flung down his pen and finally glanced up. A smile was spreading across his features – I wondered if he had made some sort of breakthrough concerning the papers, or whether (impossibly) my presence had triggered such a human reaction.

"I am smiling," Mycroft stated, by way of greeting, "Because I am both surprised and pleased to see you. I thought perhaps your relationship with my brother would be somewhat tenuous after the little tiff that I witnessed from the window – for which I confess I was partly responsible – but I am gladdened to see that you have decided to endure your position as his assistant for a little longer."

I pointedly ignored the apparent attempt at provoking me, and merely nodded shortly. 'I have come to ask a question of you. About the case Holmes is… We are investigating."

Mycroft frowned for a moment, and then seemed to remember. "Ah… yes… What was your question?

"Holmes wishes to know if the foreign diplomat happens to own a Siamese cat."

Mycroft's puzzled expression cleared. "Ah – I understand what he is driving at. I forget how intelligent my little brother is, sometimes."

I tried not to show that I had not the faintest clue was he was driving at.

As he stared happily into the distance for some minutes, I cleared my throat pointedly, and he glanced back at me impatiently, as if he had forgotten I was there. "Yes?"

"Does the foreign diplomat own a Siamese cat?"

He gave a wide smile. "That is the question, is it not?"

"Evidently," I replied, with not a little annoyance.

"Then allow me to prevaricate a little before I answer it."

Why, oh why, had I ever become involved with this mad family?

"I must confess that I am impressed that you have remained with my brother. I appreciate that considering his 'moods', he can be very trying."

I waited impatiently.

He stood suddenly, impressively swiftly for a man of his size, and went to the window to peruse the street outside. "You realise, I expect, that he is no way an ordinary human being."

I nodded cautiously in agreement, doubtful as to what the purpose of this statement was.

Mycroft turned and gave me a calculating look. "As regards to matters of the heart, he has all the limited, twisted experience of the child of less than eleven years old who watched his father murdered before his eyes. His ignorance of such things is as great as his knowledge in other areas. For him, love and affection are commodities which he was once starved of, and now believes he can survive without."

As usual, I did not understand why this conversation was even taking place, but the fact that Mycroft was now giving me advice on Holmes' emotional state was so shocking that I was willing to stay quiet and see how things progressed. I watched as he turned once more to observe the passers-by beneath his window.

"Dr. Watson once wrote of him as a brain without a heart. I do not believe he is so, but the heart is buried so deep that it is easier for him to ignore it. When I observed him with you, he seemed… different."

My heart thudded wildly, and I tried to bring the conversation back to some sort of rationality. "But the other day… You said he was only a cold shell…"

A smile curled his lips, though he did not look at me. "I must confess that I was guilty of a little mendacity there – I am not so high and mighty that I am not capable of a little subtle manipulation. I wanted to hear your reaction."

I decided not to respond to that. Of course he had manipulated me – changing variables in a chemical experiment to see how the results varied. My mental comparison was so clinical, so Holmes-like, that it startled me for a moment.

"All the same," Mycroft continued, affixing me once more with that intelligent glare. "I do not mean that such a venture will be in any way simple, or should be taken on lightly. But I must admit to possessing the hope that you will be the making of my brother."

"Are you giving me your blessing, or something?" I asked, bemused.

Mycroft chuckled under his breath. "Better not mention this to Sherlock. He gets a little… irritated with my poking my nose into his private affairs, and I'm sure this would constitute doing so. Goodbye, Miss Chantrey."

I shook his flabby flipper of a hand.

"Does the diplomat own a Siamese cat?" I repeated desperately, and Mycroft gave an odd little chuckle again.

"Of course he does. By the sounds of it, Sherlock will have the case sorted out by tomorrow morning – give him my thanks when you next see him."

"I will… Thank you…"

He gave me a last thoughtful look, smothered another chuckle, and returned to his papers.

_December 29__th_

I woke suddenly in the dark, unsure of what had caused me to stir from my slumber.

After my meeting with Mycroft, I had returned to Baker Street to leave a final note to Holmes, before meeting Mark for lunch. I had spent an amusing afternoon in his company (how warm and enthusiastic he was!) and then come back home, to find a scribbled reply at the bottom of the piece of paper I had used earlier. I was a little disappointed to have missed him, but the words we had left were comforting:

_Thank you. Will instruct Lestrade to make arrest shortly. Will be back tomorrow morning._

_ SH_

I checked the clock, and found that it was half an hour past seven. Holmes would surely be back soon! I dressed quickly and stumbled downstairs, just in time to hear the sound of the front door opening. The familiar lean, tall figure edged through the door quietly, and with a sigh, flung himself into his armchair beside the still faintly glowing coals of the fire.

"Holmes?"

He glanced up when he heard me, and I laughed in surprise and delight to see his face still covered by the dirty white beard, now slightly askew.

"How did you get on – has he been arrested?"

"Most certainly," Holmes replied. His face was lazy and heavy-lidded, as contented as a cat who has got the cream.

"Are you all right? Tired?"

"Mmm," Holmes said in response. I could tell that he was utterly exhausted - I had grown used to both his relentless energy during a case, and also the following days of contented inactivity before he picked up another one. "Thank you. For going to see Mycroft. Did you have any trouble?"

"No," I confirmed quickly. "And he sends his thanks."

Holmes gave a low chuckle. "Excellent."

"Would you like a cup of tea, or anything…?"

Silver eyes caught mine. "A cup of tea would be delightful," he said lazily. He paused for a moment before adding, "You know, you really are a great help to me. Sorry if I sometimes don't realise it."

I left to make the tea, pondering this strange remark. I had intended to question him about it when I returned, but when I came in bearing a steaming pot of tea, it was to find him fast asleep, curled up in his chair, his knees tucked to his chin, like a small child.

_February 14__th_

_**Holmes**_

The emotions I was feeling were completely incomprehensible. For some reason my mind seemed continually plagued with thoughts of Anne, even when it was spectacularly irrelevant to the case at hand. Only last week, I had nearly missed a vital clue because I was contemplating just how porcelain-perfect her skin was that day. Luckily, Anne, bent double with her magnifying glass beside me, had picked up on the crucial signs of wear in the left footprint of our killer. She had clearly thought I was deliberately ignoring it in order to test her, and I praised providence that she had been there, for my subsequent deductions might have been fatally flawed otherwise. But, on the other hand, if she had not been there in the first place, then I doubtless would not have lost my concentration so abominably.

On the whole, the matter frustrated me terribly. I had no points of reference to work from, no framework of facts on which to base my suppositions. It was like being stranded in the midst of a terribly complicated case with absolutely no leads, and no information to work with. For once, I had inkling of how Lestrade must so often feel – baffled and lost.

The most irksome thing was that I had no idea about _her _feelings. She was both female and highly intelligent, both characteristics that made my deductions rather unreliable. I didn't know how I could find out her thoughts, unless through asking her directly (which would doubtless result in unthinkable embarrassment). Occasionally, I managed to believe that my confused feelings could possibly be reciprocated in some way, but for the majority of the time, I knew that I was just entertaining a pathetic semblance of hope.

Not to mention the fact that Mark Collingwood was vexing me dreadfully. He wasn't unpleasant – on the contrary, he was exceptionally polite and well mannered, which somehow just made it _worse_. For one thing, it tempted me to act obnoxiously in order to see if he were really that tedious. Also, it just made me all the more certain that it would be in Anne's best interests to marry the accursed man, which was an extremely tiresome conclusion to come to. After all, if I was tendering some sort of childish infatuation for her, surely I should be able to convince myself that she would be happy in my company, rather than continually reminding myself that she would be better off with someone else. Mark Collingwood was in every way "someone else". He was reliable and considerate and kind and dependable. Everything that I was not.

Though on the other hand he was (in my opinion) one of the most tedious human beings I had ever come across. Someone, just the sight of him in Baker Street made my blood boil; some primeval part of me wished to snap and snarl at him to get out of my territory, and yet I was forced to endure the man in an effort to seem civilised for Anne. I felt guilty when I felt annoyed with her for going out on a private stroll with him, worrying like an over-protective father. Although I did not generally enjoy excessive human contact, the sight of him embracing her sparked a red hot flame of jealousy in my chest, and I knew that soon Anne would notice my reaction. Part of me was viciously tempted to frame him for some crime (nothing terribly serious) just to get him out of our lives. But I could never do such a thing, knowing how Anne cared for him.

I sighed. What I needed was someone to speak to. Someone to ask, without being terribly embarrassed by my gaping ignorance. What I needed was Watson. Sadly, the man in question was currently unavailable for consultation, and was likely to remain so for the foreseeable future.

What I needed was to know what Anne was thinking.

It had been the fourth time I had walked past the florist's that day, on each occasion in a different guise, but I had yet to summon up the courage to actually enter. A vague plan was forming in my mind.

I had not failed to notice that today's date was dedicated to the memory of Saint Valentine, the Christian martyr. However, I had never thought that the accompanying holiday spirit and giving of needlessly sentimental gifts was really that necessary.

So why this year were my eyes drawn to each bouquet of flowers, each shop proudly displaying cards bedecked with innumerable small ribbons and pieces of lace? Why I was not able to ignore the chatting couples passing up and down the streets, hands clasped happily, as I normally was?

Really, the idea of buying a Valentine's gift for Anne was completely ridiculous. After all, we were nothing but friends.

I thought about the matter seriously. I was aware that family members occasionally gave Valentine's gifts as a sign of their affection for each other, with no romantic motives. So surely I could do the same? A flower or two would brighten up our consulting room, at any rate. _And_ I would be able to observe her reaction as I gave it to her, even if I just pretended the gift were in jest. In all, the whole thing might prove to be an extremely valuable experiment.

A few minutes later I left the florist's, having purchased a single red rose. As I had once recounted to Watson in one of my more philosophical moods, I had a certain fondness for flowers, for that spark of beauty which was made all the more beautiful by the fact that it was unnecessary – a mere extra which Heaven had conspired to place there.

In a little under half an hour I found myself back at Baker Street, and found to my irritation that my heart was beating a little faster at the thought of seeing Anne again, though I had parted from her company a mere hour or so ago! The matter was honestly becoming ridiculous.

As I ascended the stairs, I became aware of voices in the room above me. I paused, intrigued. Was Anne with a client? But no – I as quietly made my way to the door, I realised that the second of the voices was undoubtedly Mark Collingwood's. Curious, I pushed the door open a fraction of an inch, just enough to peep through. Some part of me thought that perhaps this was a private conversation, and eavesdroppers would not be appreciated. The rest of me was so curious to find out what they were talking about that I didn't care.

I angled my head so I could glimpse the two of them, standing together. Mark had clearly had the same idea as I, but he was holding not just one, but a massive bouquet of red roses. A flutter of jealousy rose immediately in my chest, but I managed to push it away.

"Oh Mark, they're beautiful..." She took them, that little smile gracing her delicate features, and inhaled the scent of them deeply.

I gritted my teeth. If I had arrived just ten minutes earlier, I might have been able to provoke that smile, even if I only had one, pathetically drooping, rose.

"Anne..."

She turned her face away a little, avoiding his gaze, fiddling with the flowers in order to have an excuse to not meet his eyes.

"Anne..."

And then, from the depths of his coat, he produced a tiny box, and my heart clenched. Even I could tell what that was.

"

_**Anne**_

"Anne... I wonder if you would make me the happiest man in London, and do me the great honour of becoming my wife," he said quietly.

I observed Mark's face miserably. I had guessed something like this was coming, of course, but now I had the most terrible decision to make.

Mark was kind, friendly, honest, sincere, compassionate, reliable, caring, respectful, funny and genuine.

Holmes was unpredictable, irascible, frustrating, depressive, reckless, almost impossible to live with, and lied as frequently as he breathed. He was like a grown child. And a difficult, rude, antisocial child, at that.

But, Heaven help me, Mark didn't make my heart beat fast when he spoke to me. Not any more. His eyes never held that fierce spark that Holmes' did. He couldn't quash a thousand of my protests with a glance or sweep me along with that unstoppable, euphoric energy. He wasn't ever almost inhumanly clinical, or effortlessly commanding.

On the other hand, my chances of finding myself in any sort of romantic relationship with Holmes were so slim that they were practically non-existent. After all, wasn't this the man that even his closest friends had considered nothing more than a machine? Wasn't it better to grasp my only chance at happiness with both hands while I still could? I had no doubt that Mark would be a wonderful husband, and I knew that I could learn to love him, given some time away from the reckless drama that surrounded Holmes.

What were the alternatives? Being trapped, a lonely spinster, living with a lonely bachelor, both unable to help each other or ourselves? Would I eventually not even wish for human company at all? Would I become a female version of Holmes, believing that I could survive without that contact? Or, even more painfully, would I remain possessed of all my muddled, childish feelings for him for the rest of my life – all that emotion, never reciprocated? Would I still be trailing around with him in ten, twenty, thirty years, clinging to that forlorn hope?

The trouble was that he never gave me any kind of sign – and I didn't know, even if he did have feelings for me, whether he would ever speak of them. That would be the most tragic outcome – both bound together, both too frightened that the ropes would snap if we ever mentioned our innermost thoughts.

_**Holmes**_

I felt a faint pinprick of pain and looked down at my hand, to find that my fingers were crushing the rose. Sharp thorns had punctured the skin of my palm, and beads of blood slowly swelled as I pulled them free.

"Anne... I wonder if you would make me the happiest man in London, and do me the great honour of becoming my wife," Mark said, and my world drew to a shuddering halt. I didn't want to hear the answer. I didn't want to hear the last of my fragile, tentative, ludicrous hopes disappear like smoke. I was suddenly desperate to get away, to escape, to shut myself away and not speak to another living soul for days. A life without Anne – the darkness would draw over me again, and I couldn't bear it...

She would accept, of course. And the worst thing was, I would agree with her choice. He was the better man, and she deserved the best.

The rose dropped from my trembling fingers, and I returned downstairs, a dull pain caught in my chest, my teeth clenched, my mind aching with unwanted emotions. Before I knew it, I had emerged on to the London street again, ready to lose myself in the confused hustle and bustle of the lives of a thousand inane, ordinary people, who would never make me feel as she did.

xxx

_Several hours later._

_**Anne**_

"Holmes?"

"Mm?"

He raised his head expectantly, mid-way through pulling on his coat.

"Where are you going?"

"Oh – Lestrade's found another body and he needs me to find the trail of the Barnslake killer again – suspect he's hiding out somewhere until things die down a little."

We had been following the activities of Robin Chapman, better known as the Barnslake killer, for nearly a month now, and I could tell that our lack of progress had been badly irritating Holmes. We had visited eleven bloody murder scenes, and only now were we closing the net. Our killer murdered for pleasure, that was clear, and the corpses had made uncomfortable viewing. The first ten had been young women of various occupation and social standing, but number eleven had been different – a male professor of Mathematics at a college only a few miles away.

Only one of his intended victims had survived – number twelve.

"The Barnslake killer?" Mark asked, puzzled. "Wasn't he the one who tried to poison you the Thursday before last?"

"Yes, that sounds remarkably like him," Holmes replied acidly.

Somehow a cup of tea left by Mrs. Hudson for a moment or two unobserved had been filled with enough morphine to kill twenty men. By some miracle, Holmes had not intended it to alleviate his thirst, but instead as part of a chemical experiment to assess the effects when added to a solution of hydrochloric acid. His preliminary analysis had uncovered the poison.

The incident had shaken me greatly, but Holmes had merely brushed it aside, commenting that it was good luck that Mark or I had not decided to take up stealing his drinks as a hobby.

He stood and headed for the door. Irritated, I stood to follow him. He gave me a perplexed glance.

"What…?"

"I thought the agreement was that we were to be partners?" I reminded him firmly. "I'm coming too."

"So am I," Mark said quickly, getting to his feet, and patting his pockets anxiously for his revolver. "You might have need of some help."

Holmes' withering glance clearly indicated that he thought that Mark's help was worth less than the assistance of a drunken circus monkey, but he nodded nonetheless. "Come along, then."

xxx

_**Lestrade**_

"What do you make of it, then?" I asked expectantly, and was amused to see Holmes and Miss Chantrey both rise to their feet at the same time and give me identical impatient glances.

"The fact that this was not a premeditated killing is blatantly obvious," Holmes began, gesturing dispassionately at the corpse stretched out on the dusty floorboards of the small boarding house.

"Our killer was nervous, frightened, even," Miss Chantrey put in.

"He had not eaten for some days – probably as a result of being on the run from your..._admirable _officers."

"But he was also seeking attention," Miss Chantrey added. "It's not like the others – before, he killed out of necessity, to satisfy his desire for bloodlust, but now he wants to be noticed. He wants fame – notoriety. He's enjoying the chase now."

Holmes glanced quickly at the body as if to confirm her diagnosis, and then nodded in comprehension. The idea of Holmes having to have a clue pointed out to him brought a smile to my lips.

Then again, he had seemed... distracted, on several recent cases. I was very happily married, and yet I could see how a lady such as Miss Chantrey could distract one from one's work.

"And?" I inquired petulantly. "Riveting as all this superfluous information in, I actually want to know where the chap has gone _now_, not the last time he had his hair cut."

"Incidentally, I would presume the latter to be around six months ago," Holmes smirked. "But as to his present whereabouts, by the looks of the distinctive texture of the grit..."

I sighed theatrically, and earned myself a scowl from Holmes. "I can never comprehend," he said icily. "Why you never seem to seek to improve your own detective skills, which would surely benefit by my explaining of the solution of your little problems to you."

"It must be because I enjoy your company," I replied sweetly, and Miss Chantrey shot me an amused, and very beautiful, smile. Poor Holmes.

"Anyway," he continued haughtily. "I would say that your man has been recently hiding out in one of the derelict houses on Magdalene Street."

"Excellent," I said quickly, before he could elaborate on the hundred and one tiny reasons for his conclusion. "We'll go there now."

_**Anne**_

"No."

"Holmes, I am an adult, in case you hadn't noticed."

"You are also a young lady," he continued firmly, staring out at the street as the hansom cab rattled along. "And it would not be fitting for..."

"Do you really care about what is 'fitting'?" I enquired. "You always come across as a rather unconventional person."

He shot me a half-amused, half-exasperated look. "All the same, I would really rather you stayed behind." His eyes were bright and intense, but I fought to resist their commanding influence.

"I agree," Mark put in.

I could tell that Holmes had half a mind to change his mind on the matter just to disagree with Mark, but restrained himself. "Honestly..."

"I'll be with half a dozen policeman, and you two," I protested. "Do you really think I won't be safe enough?"

Maybe it was being with Holmes, or maybe it was just some natural talent I had previously ignored, but I had become remarkably skilled in the art of manipulation. Especially when men were concerned.

There was a moment of hesitation, and then Mark sighed. "Well… I suppose…"

I could tell that Holmes was irritated that Mark had spoken first, as if it were his decision to make, rather than Mark's, but he nodded grudgingly. "Just don't go doing anything stupid." His silver eyes flashed at me.

_**Holmes**_

"Any luck yet, Lestrade?" I asked curtly, and he shook his head mournfully. I cursed viciously in frustration.

"I thought as much, Holmes – you mustn't blame yourself," he said dejectedly. "He's probably long flown the nest by now."

I didn't bother to reply. It didn't matter what he said – I did blame myself. If only I hadn't been so infernally distracted these past few weeks, I could have caught him. I knew I could have caught him.

Besides, I wanted to see his face – wanted to know what my invisible prey looked like. And this had become more than the average case to me – it had been made personal by a particularly audacious attempt on my life. That in itself did not disturb me, but the thought that Anne, or even Mrs. Hudson, could have been harmed sent a chill down my spine.

Mark Collingwood had already melted into the group of police officers breaking down the door of 12 Magdalene Street, bland and faceless. I could have told them that it was pointless – a swift glance at the cobwebs and dust assured me that the abandoned house really was abandoned.

I felt myself shiver, despite myself. Anne had been cold in the hansom, and I had given her my jacket. I was not one to be normally affected by an 'atmosphere', but in this case I would have to make an exception.

The row of derelict, forlorn houses stared out through their broken-window eyes at us, looking almost accusing. I shook myself. It was a ridiculous notion, and yet one that I could not get out of my mind. It was as if those dusty, age-worn eyes were trying to tell me something.

Dear God, where was Anne?

I spun around in sudden panic, unsure when I had last seen her. Surely she had not gone investigating in one of the houses alone? How long had she been gone? No, no, no, no...

"Looking for something, Holmes?"

Oh, thank the Lord – she was just there, sitting on a small crumbling wall that surrounded the garden of Number 8.

"Not particularly," I said blandly, trying to act unconcerned.

She was looking particularly young and beautiful, swathed in my ridiculous jacket, which was ludicrously too long for her. She looked like a small child wrapped in her father's coat – precious and vulnerable and delicate.

"You think it's too late, don't you?" she said shrewdly, getting to her feet. No, I decided. She did not look quite like a child. Though her face was mild enough, she retained some air of elegance and dignity and that of someone who knew too much about the evils of the world. Sadly, I reflected that this was probably mostly down to me. Dragging a young lady about to murder scenes was hardly chivalrous.

I tried to pretend that had been what I was thinking.

"Well, Lestrade still seems hopeful," I commented. "What do you think?"

She sighed, crossing her arms and rubbing them a little to get warm. I had an irrational urge to go and embrace her.

"I'm not sure... Logically, I think that he must surely have moved on by now, but somehow..."

She shrugged. In previous times, I would have sworn that I had no faith in intuition at all, but time spent with Anne had changed my opinions. She often had an uncanny knack of guessing things right, of instinctively _knowing._

"I might go back to the hansom," she said presently. "I can't see there's much point in our sticking around here."

Disappointing as our lack of success was, I agreed, and went to notify Lestrade of our departure.

"Lestrade... Miss Chantrey and I might be heading off. Can't see that we're doing much good here."

Lestrade nodded glumly. "Oh well – bad luck. Maybe we'll get him next time."

"Maybe," I murmured.

"You taking Collingwood with you?"

An irrational wave of anger rose in my chest – how dare he, how dare he steal Anne away from me? I wondered vaguely when Anne was going to break the news to me. She would have to, at some point. Unless she and Mark were planning to stay in Baker Street together. I inwardly groaned in despair. That would surely be intolerable.

"He seems to be having fun," I said blandly. "Miss Chantrey's cold – tell him I've taken her home to Baker Street."

Lestrade nodded understandingly. Somehow, I thought that he knew too much about my feelings for Anne for my comfort. A few drunken words had been responsible for that, and now I couldn't take them back.

"I'll tell him."

"Thanks."

I wandered back to the cab, and climbed in.

It was then that I realised that Anne was not there.

My heart began pounding, and I sought to calm it. She might just have gone to speak to Mark, gone to tell him that we were going...

Oh God, oh God, oh God...

I spun around frantically, finding myself suddenly trembling. For a moment I thought I saw the face of Robin Chapman – no longer anonymous, but thin and dark, eyes flashing, laughing, standing over Anne's body...

And then I saw it.

A glimmer of movement in the right window of Number 8 – a subtle wink, grabbing my attention.

Trying to remain calm, though my heart was hammering, I walked sedately to the doorway, which creaked open at my touch. The police had already searched this house – the dust was impossible to read, muddled and scuffled by many footprints...

I started up the stairs, which groaned as my feet tested the old floorboards. I avoided a gaping hole on the landing, and realised that I had drawn my revolver, almost without thinking about it.

A door directly to my left. A quick calculation, and I went cold. If there was a window, it could quite easily look out on to the street.

I opened the door.

A small, skinny man, with a friendly, open face.

One arm hooked about Anne's neck.

One hand clutching a pistol to her head.

My mind went numb. There was a string of blood issuing from her temple and a rapidly growing bruise. Her eyes were bright with terror.

Time seemed to slow down.

_**Anne**_

My head was throbbing painfully, and my throat was being squeezed uncomfortably hard, and I had a gun pressed to my head.

And then just when I thought things couldn't get much worse, Holmes came in.

"Unless you kill me outright with a single shot," my captor said quietly. I could feel the vibration of his voice against my back. "Then she'll be dead a second after you pull the trigger."

"Want do you want?" Holmes asked. His voice sounded harsh and… surely not… desperate? No, being nearly strangled was obviously affecting my judgement.

"The same as you," Robin Chapman said calmly. For a small man, he was terrifyingly strong. "I want to stop being bored, Sherlock Holmes. At first, it started off with just a few. Moderation. But then, I got carried away. I wanted more."

Holmes licked his lips. "You tried to kill me."

"Yes, I did. A pity it didn't come off. It would have been a marvellous feather in my cap. All the same, I might still get that feather."

I prayed silently that Holmes wouldn't do anything stupid.

"What do you want?" Holmes repeated.

"I want to make you an offer."

"Go ahead."

Holmes had regulated his voice to a deceptive calm, but could tell by the very slight twitching of the muscle in his eyelid that he was far from relaxed.

"I will count to five, and on five, I will pull this trigger."

I inhaled slowly, my mind spinning. Of course, some part of me had guessed that I would not get out of this alive. But all the same, I thought childishly, _I don't want to die. _

In three months, I would be celebrating my twenty fifth birthday.

_I don't want to die._

"Or?" Holmes asked.

I was shocked out of my dazed thoughts. I hadn't realised there would be an alternative option.

"Or, I will count to five, and you will pull your trigger."

I saw the instant comprehension on Holmes' face, and slowly, he raised the revolver to his own temple in question, and then lowered it again. Despite Chapman's earlier threats, I struggled violently.

"No, Holmes… Don't, please…"

A swift blow to the other side of my head with the revolver in his hand nearly knocked me over, but he held me up. Holmes had hesitated; the revolver was now trained once more on my captor.

"Holmes – listen. You mustn't, you…"

"Are you unusually unintelligent, or merely attempting to irritate me?" Chapman asked coldly. "If it is the latter, then you are succeeding."

"If I die, will you let her go?" Holmes' voice was clear and curt.

"Of course. I will certainly hang, but I shall become the most famous man in London first."

Everything was moving too fast for my stunned brain to process the information. "Holmes, you can't…"

"I will count to five."

"This is madness… I…"

"One."

I redoubled my efforts to get free, though the cold revolver now pressing itself resolutely at the base of my skull soon ensured my obedience.

"Holmes, this is ridiculous… Get help…"

"Two."

"No, you can't, you can't!"

"Three."

"Holmes, do you think he will just let me go afterwards? Save yourself, please!"

"Four."

"Don't do it, please, God – don't you dare die for me…"

"Five."

A single shot shattered the silence.

**Author's Note:  
Oooh, a cliff-hanger (and a cheesy one at that). Will Holmes sacrifice himself for Anne, or will Chapman jump the gun and decide that destroying Holmes would be more interesting that just killing him? **

** OK – I cannot give sufficient excuses, for neglecting you all for WEEKS (and I mean WEEKS). If you have all abandoned me in despair, I will have got what I deserved, but I hope you haven't **** Have had a terrible cold for the past two weeks, as well as English coursework and a general lack of inspiration, which have been the chief causes of my not updating – please forgive me! Also, my Internet has been down for ages because of building work but when I got it back again, hannah (whoever you are!) – your review encouraged me to start ferociously typing away every morning on the way to school on the bus, which has become my only opportunity for writing. It's not steady enough for me to do homework on anyway **

** As for the stupid cliff-hanger, I apologise again. I have to confess that some very nasty part of me thought it would be nice and dramatic just to leave it like this so you never know whether Anne chose Mark or Holmes and who died, but I'm not that evil. So there will be a very short Chapter-17-conclusion chapter up fairly soon, hopefully!**

** If you are reading this, then thank you for sticking with me, and sorry once more for the tremendous gap! I love you all! x**


	18. Chapter 18 Aftermath

_**Anne**_

I staggered towards Holmes, blood staining the ill-fitting jacket. My heart was pounding uncontrollably, my legs ready to give way, my head throbbing…

Holmes dropped his revolver and caught me clumsily in his wiry arms as my knees buckled and we fell to the ground in a mess of broken glass and tangled limbs. "Dear God, Anne… Are you all right? You're not hurt?"

Anxious, shaking, warm hands touched my cheek, checking my bruised temple. I was too dazed to absorb what was happening, my head spinning with shock. "What happened?"

"Someone shot him – through the window…"

"Is he… is he dead?"

My breath was coming in shuddering gasps, and Holmes abruptly pulled me closer to him. I clutched at him blindly, burying my head in his chest, feeling the comforting thud of his heartbeat. Warm arms encircled me, and I felt a hard lump rise up in my throat. Choking back the tears, I twisted myself around in his arms, so I could see his face. It was ashen, those thin pale lips trembling and twisting in distress.

"Holmes... Are you all right?"

He released me, and a rush of cold enveloped me as his arms shifted away. He touched a tentative hand to my cheek, brushing the pad of his thumb lightly across the bruised area, a strange look in his eyes. I kept absolutely still, not wishing to shatter the moment.

"Would you have… Would you have done it?" I asked quietly.

"Of course," he said softly. "I... I couldn't lose you."

The silence was deafening. I placed a hand over Holmes', willing him to understand, to stay with me, for one more second...

Lestrade, eight police officers, and Mark Collingwood burst in. I had never been less glad to see them. Holmes snatched his hand away as if he had been burned, and got to his feet, half-dragging me with him.

"Good God, Holmes! What happened...? Collingwood said something was going on – got into the house opposite and started firing off bullets like there was no tomorrow... Is that Chapman?"

Mark. Mark had saved us. I saw the unexpected hatred writhe in Holmes' face, and he began to explain to Lestrade in his most dispassionate, clinical manner what had happened, no emotion at all in his voice.

Mark shifted from the back of the crowd and came to stand beside me. "Anne... Are you all right? You've got a bruise on your head..."

"I know," I said vaguely. I was watching Holmes' every move, feeling a bubble of hope tentatively fluttering in my stomach. He finished his succinct explanation, and strode downstairs, Lestrade trailing in his wake, clutching a notebook, struggling to keep up, as usual.

I stared after him. Had I imagined that look in his eyes? Had I imagined the anger in his face when Mark had been mentioned? After all, what reason had he to dislike Mark?

The pieces began to slowly slide together, so neatly that I could hardly believe her. Heaven – was it possible...? The realisation threatened to sweep me away with the force of it.

"Do you want to sit down, Anne – you look a bit faint..."

"No – I'm fine... Just had a bit of a shock, that's all..."

"Really... You should sit down... I'll get a hansom to take us back home... You could do with a strong cup of tea, I expect..."

"No, Mark!"

I almost snarled at him, and I was distressed to see the hurt in his face. "No... I didn't mean... Sorry... It's just I..."

I fumbled for the correct words.

"I've got to go!" I blurted, and darted away from him, down the stairs, into the decaying and mouldering living room of the house, where Holmes was reprimanding Lestrade severely for not having his officers check for secret hidey-holes, where Chapman had evidently hidden during the first search of the house.

The conversation ground to a halt as Holmes caught my eye.

"I need to talk to you," I said, my voice hoarse.

Holmes shot Lestrade a look that was so obviously a curt dismissal that Lestrade merely withdraw, murmuring his apologies.

Now it was just the two of us, Holmes was making a definite effort not to meet my eyes, absent-mindedly tracing his fingers through the dust on the mantelpiece.

"We need to talk," I said shakily.

"What about?"

"About... About..."

Holmes turned to me, and his face was twisted with venom and anguish. "You come here to talk to me, disturbing the investigation of the last movements of a dangerous serial killer, and you can barely talk coherent sentences. Why don't you just scuttle back upstairs to your fiancée?"

I stopped dead, and yet another piece of the puzzle clicked into place.

"It was you," I said. "On the stairs."

Holmes was once again refusing to meet my eyes.

"Mark and I heard a noise – there was a red rose on the stairs. Mark said it had come from his bouquet, but it was a different shade of red – the petals felt different..."

Holmes gave a short, barking laugh. "Incredibly observant, Miss Chantrey. Full marks."

I ignored the resumed use of my formal title. I knew full well that that was just a Holmes technique for putting some distance between us again, and this time, I wasn't going to let it happen.

"You overheard our conversation."

It wasn't a question. Holmes shifted his feet restlessly.

"Then why do you think I have any intention of marrying him?"

_**Holmes**_

I froze. Deep within the aching confines of my chest, something fluttered. "I'm sorry?"

"I said, 'why do you think I have any intention of marrying him?'"

"But he... he proposed to you..." I became aware that I was stuttering, which was rather embarrassing, so I closed my mouth.

"That'll teach you to only eavesdrop on half a conversation, won't it?" she said quietly.

"But... But..." I was rarely lost for words, but I was finding the task of putting forward an intelligent opinion articulately close to impossible.

"Sherlock Holmes, for a genius, you can be monumentally stupid!" she snapped. "I turned him down!"

My brain ceased to function properly.

_**Anne**_

"Again?" he asked weakly.

I didn't bother to ask how he knew; instead I took a tentative step towards him. His feet shuffled, but he didn't move away.

"Shouldn't you be asking a different question?"

"What?"

I sighed theatrically. "So the fact that I turned down a marriage proposal from my childhood sweetheart doesn't seem at all odd to you?"

Holmes' eyes darted to my face, a trace of desperation in the silver depths. "Why?" His voice was barely a murmur.

"Because I realised that I couldn't marry him when I cared about someone else so much."

Even now, I was terrified that it was all going to have been a horrendous mistake, but his rigid posture told a different story. His head flicked to the side, shoulders hunched, watching me like a wary animal, terrified of misinterpreting my words, something flickering in his face that I couldn't identify.

I wasn't sure that he wouldn't shy away from a hug, so instead I merely went to touch his hand. Even then, he initially twitched it away, but then allowed me to clasp it in mine. I felt like a child clutching the hand of a family member for comfort.

"I am compelled to admit," he murmured quietly. "That this is a subject which I have only the barest knowledge of."

I laughed shyly. "I'm not exactly particularly experienced myself."

"But I... I don't know what to feel..."

His eyes were pleading, lonely. Despite my better judgement, I leaned forwards and embraced him tightly, tears oozing from beneath my lids, inhaling the delicious scent combination that was his cologne and his skin, unbelievably grateful that he was alive, and breathing, and that his arms were wrapped around me.

"I knew I hadn't imagined your heart beating faster when he hugged before," he breathed. "And your pulse has most _definitely_ accelerated."

I chuckled, drew back a little, and he became unexpectedly still, eyes scanning every inch of my face. I had never felt so exhilarated, or so nervous. He was so overwhelmingly close that I could feel the faint, warm whisper of his breath on my cheek. I could feel the heat of his body; I lifted a tentative hand to touch the cool, smooth skin of his face. My heart was beating so hard that I could hardly breathe. A small smile twisted his mouth, and then he bent his head hesitantly and touched his lips to mine.

He tasted of tobacco and Holmes and that elusive mint flavour that I had recognised last time. And as we broke apart, I found the foolish smile on my face was perfectly mirrored on his lips.

**Author's Note:**

Short and sweet I hope

To be honest I couldn't really face killing either of them at this stage, but I had sort of considered it: if Anne had died I think Holmes would have killed himself - no interference from Mycroft this time And if Holmes had died Anne would have either have carried on the consulting detective business solo, or moved away to get away from the memories. Maybe she would even have married Mark, but I don't think he would have been a very good substitute…

Thank you as usual for all the lovely reviews

Raptured Night – I fear we may have got our wires crossed as I don't really intend this to be the last chapter, but rather a conclusion to the previous one – not sure whether in the next one I will have Holmes and Anne breaking the news to Mark, or shifting further forward in time... Thank you so much for your comments – they really mean a lot!

Lulu-fifi – seriously considered your idea as that would have disposed of Mark quite neatly but couldn't help thinking that Anne would somehow have been overcome with guilt and not had quite the happy ending I wanted! Sorry about the cliffhanger and hope this concludes it OK

So… Ideas for next chapter would be welcome – have a last scene set out quite nicely in my mind but not sure whether to jump forward in time or continue where I left off from at the end of this chapter… Not that I'll be able to update for some time thanks to HOMEWORK OVERLOAD (sob)

Thank you for reading, and for your patience! Love you!


	19. Chapter 19 A new form of normality

_**Anne**_

We had sat down together on the floor, half-leaning against the wall, happily oblivious to all else save each other. A slim, white hand reached to twist a strand of my hair – inquisitive, tentative.

"Where do we go from here?" Holmes murmured. His voice was lazy and quiet, his movements languorous.

I sighed, wishing we could stay and hide here for the rest of today, tomorrow and next week. "We need to tell Mark."

"Do we really?"

"Yes," I said sternly. Then warm lips brushed my ear, and I froze. A series of warm tingles trembled through my body, and Holmes laughed softly. I could feel his warm breath on my skin.

"What are you doing?"

"Experimenting."

"Well, stop it. I'm trying to concentrate."

Holmes sighed in discontent, like a spoilt child irritated at not getting his own way. "What is there to tell Mark, anyway?"

"Well, I turned down his marriage proposal. Don't you think he deserve an explanation?"

"Not particularly," Holmes said with a yawn. Although his manner was sleepy, his eyes were like quicksilver, and I wasn't fooled.

"Come on," I said wearily, getting to my feet and brushing the dust from my skirts. "Let's go and tell him."

"Anne. Stop. Wait."

Although the words held a ring of authority, his tone was gentle, pleading. I turned, surprised.

"What is it?"

"Are you sure you want to tell everyone?"

"I wasn't planning to announce it to the whole of London. After all, we're not getting married. We're just... courting. But I think Mark deserves to know."

"But..." Holmes glanced away, and for a horrific moment I thought he was having doubts already. "I don't know, Anne... You're so young, and I'm..." He glanced away. "I don't know what people will think..."  
My heart lightened. He wasn't having doubts – he was afraid that _I_ was. I caught one of his hands in mine. "Listen. I am certain that I want this. I don't care what people think. I've known girls marry men nearly thrice their age – there's nothing unusual about it."

"But..."

"Sherlock," I said gently, and somehow, being able to say his first name was unexpectedly enjoyable. For a moment I saw the small child in his eyes, and all the fear and doubt. It was going to take a long time to persuade him that I reciprocated his feelings. I kissed him gently on the cheek. His skin was soft against mine. "I don't care that you're older. I really don't."  
He gave a lopsided smile. "And this…" He kissed me back, on the lips, leaving me slightly breathless. "This courting business. What does it involve exactly?"

"You've already been engaged once," I said teasingly. "I thought you would have a fair idea."

"Walking?" he enquired, and brushed his lips to mine again, a feather light touch that sent a little glow through my body. "Talking?"

"Something like that," I said vaguely. "But you're going to have to stop doing _that _in public. It's not very subtle."

Holmes sighed theatrically, and kissed me one more time. "You really are very beautiful with your cheeks so pink," he said thoughtfully. "Even with dust in your hair." He ran a gentle hand through my curls. "Hm. Much better."

"Even with my war wounds?" I said mournfully, indicating my bruised temple.

He touched the contusion gently. "You're still beautiful."

I ran my eyes from his fine, aquiline bone structure, to his raven-dark hair, to his pale, perfect skin, to his slim, beautifully shaped lips, to his intelligent, shining eyes. "You're not so bad yourself," I admitted, and he laughed and indulged me with another kiss. I was beginning to get used to the delicious taste of him, but I felt it was something I would never become tired of. My body relaxed into his arms, my brain fizzing with joy.

He chuckled and pulled back a little, eyeing me thoughtfully. "I thought that wasn't 'proper'?"

"It's not," I said severely. "But then again, we seem to have broken so many of the rules already, that maybe another one or two…"

"Have we?" Holmes looked intrigued rather than scandalised. "For example?"

"Well... The idea of an unmarried man and woman living together is a fairly outrageous one..."

"Yes, but it hardly applies to us!" Holmes said teasingly. "After all, we just _happen_ to be two people who rent living-quarters from a certain Mrs. Hudson, and therefore we just _happen_ to see rather a lot of each other."

I raised my eyebrows. "The fact that you're usually regarded as a thinking machine with no affection for the fair sex whatsoever probably helps."

He smiled. I loved his smile.

"And... I mean... Technically, we shouldn't even be travelling in the same carriage together, let alone falling asleep on the couch together..." ("That was an accident!" Holmes protested) "Or even holding hands in public, and certainly not kissing. Even if we were a married couple, that might not be approved of."

Holmes sighed theatrically. "How society forces us into conformity!"

"I know," I said softly, and took his hand in mine, tracing my fingers thoughtfully over the warm skin.

"Anne..."

"Mm?"

"I don't really know what people _do. _I mean, I can observe it from the outside – I can tell you about the state of a man's marriage by the cuffs of his shirt or the well-being of his hat, but I don't understand how people fall in love... I can deduce the age of his children by observing his knees and the position of his hands as he walks, but I don't know anything about looking after them... I can tell you a million petty little details about any person you chose to name, but I really am the most spectacularly ignorant man you are ever likely to meet. So if I don't behave correctly, or if I say the wrong thing, then it's not through intention, merely through lack of knowledge."

His silver eyes pleaded with me, and I felt as though I could cry. Here was a child who had never grown up, a man for whom emotions were an alien sensation, whose curt and imperious manner stemmed from a deep, terrible fear of inferiority, of being the one reprimanded and bullied.

I seized him in a tight embrace, burying my head in his chest once more, feeling the peaceful, rhythmic thump of his heart. "I don't care," I murmured. "We'll do this slowly – as slowly as you like. I don't want to force you into..." The word 'marriage' spun around in my brain. "Anything you don't want."

He nodded silently, and I raised my head, only to have my lips crushed against his. We broke apart, a little breathless once more, and I laughed in surprise and happiness. "Just when I think I've got the measure of each of your split personalities, another one emerges," I said severely.

Holmes (_Sherlock_) raised his eyebrows. "Have you made a list?"

"I have a mind to!" I retorted. "It is becoming devilishly hard to keep track!"

He laughed (oh God, I needed to make him laugh more often – it sent shivers of lightning down my spine) and recovered some of his familiar manner. "Surely it is elementary, Miss Chantrey? A guide of sorts would surely solve your little difficulty."

He was impossible to resist in this mood – his silver eyes glittered with something indefinably _Holmes_; it was almost as though he were exuding some potent, sparkling energy. I was reminded of Christmas Day, when we had danced together, how I had been completely swept away by the strength of his personality, how I had had no other thought than to stay beside him...

"Doubtless it would," I countered. "But such a venture would take up a great time of my time and energy. Surely the difficulty could be more easily solved if the subject agreed to behave in a more regular manner?"

"Ah, but then he would not be the same man!"

I hugged him again, tightly. "I wouldn't have him any other way."

We parted again, and I gave a happy little sigh. "Come on. We'd better go back. I can talk to Mark and you can carry on scolding Lestrade."

Holmes' uncertain look told me everything I needed to know.

"Don't worry – I just need to tell him so he needn't go on chasing me."

Holmes laughed, and I flushed.

"Well, in that case..."

He opened the door for me, and we emerged out into the house, that, half an hour before, had been a place of death and silence, where a madman had held me hostage with a gun. Now it was flooded with Scotland Yarders, and held much less of a sinister, melancholy feel. Holmes sent me a swift, conspiratorial glance that threatened to make my legs collapse before leaping into a mass of policemen and effortlessly threading his way through them, berating them as he did so for the shoddiness of their uniforms and their general incompetence.

I smiled fondly and turned to find Mark standing behind me. I started a little, and he smiled apologetically. "Sorry. I didn't mean to startle you."

"Mark..."

Maybe this was not going to be as easy as I had thought.

"Maybe we could talk somewhere a little more private?" I suggested helplessly, and we retreated into the room Holmes and I had just exited.

"I know," he said quickly.

"Sorry?"

"You said earlier that you'd think about what I said. But I know you're going to turn me down."

"But... how...?"

He gave a crooked smile. "I know you, Anne. It's not hard to judge that when you're smiling at a man like you do with Holmes that you have certain fond feelings for him. I may not be a detective, but you look happier than I've ever seen you."

I flushed wretchedly.

"It's all right," he said quietly, clearly trying to act as if the matter was of no concern to him. "I understand."

"Mark... I'm sorry..."

He shrugged slightly. "As long as you're happy, I don't mind."

I blinked ridiculous tears from my eyes. Even now, I couldn't be sure – would I ever be sure? – that I had made the right decision. Even now, Holmes might prove to be too damaged, I might prove to be unable to adapt to being in a relationship with him – it was like walking on a knife edge, where our end goal seemed almost unattainable, but so magnetic that we could not resist its pull.

"I'm sorry..." I repeated again, and we embraced.

_**Holmes**_

All my mind could think of was her, all my ever-swirling, tumbling thoughts were fixated, I was unable to focus properly on the task at hand (thank Heaven it was the relatively simple one of ticking off Lestrade and his hapless officers) and my head truly felt as if it had been assembled incorrectly.

For a moment, for a single terrifying, awful moment, I had thought she were dead. That Chapman had got bored and decided instead to break the rules of the game he had created. Even when she had stumbled into my arms, I was unspeakably frightened that I was about to hold her in her last moments, but when I found the blood on her clothes was predominantly not her own, sanity had returned again. Albeit briefly, since it had vanished again when her lips touched mine.

I didn't know what I felt – didn't even know how capable I was of feeling enough for this to work, but I knew I wanted it to with all my heart.

And, also, during the long hours I had spent moping over Anne, I had come up with a particularly suitable metaphor to describe it.

It was as if for the past two years, I had sealed myself in a cold, dark, prison, lost and alone. And then Anne had careered into my life within the dizzying space of only a few days, and flung open the door of my cell, and blinded me with the brilliance of the dazzling sunlight outside, which I had scarcely been able to remember. And now I was so blinded by the light that I couldn't see my way before me, but maybe one day I would become accustomed to the brightness, and I would be able to carry on.

I felt it to be fanciful and cloyingly sentimental, but rather appropriate.

_**Anne**_

"Ouch, Holmes!"

"Sorry… sorry…"

His face was the picture of contrition, but knowing his acting skills, I could not be completely sure that it was genuine. He dabbed cautiously at the cut on my head with the iodine again, despite my wincing, and finally sat back with a triumphant smile.

It was later on that evening, and we had returned to Baker Street, with, thankfully, no further mishap. Holmes had insisted on sitting me down and tending to my wounds, but judging from the lack of the customary confidence that he normally applied to his activities, I guessed that in general, it was he who was on the receiving end of such medical treatment, rather than being the one providing it.

"There," he declared proudly, delicately wiping his fingers on a cloth. "You look charming."

I grimaced. My temple was now adorned with a beautifully secured (if, in my opinion, completely unnecessary) bandage, and I was certain that I looked far from charming. "Thank you… Sherlock."

A sudden smile twisted his features at my use of his first name, and he turned his piercing eyes on me, transfixing me to the spot. I felt as if there were not enough air in the room – heat blossomed through me and I coughed awkwardly. He smiled at the effect he was having on me, and leaned forwards very slightly, so I could feel his breath on my cheek. My heart was hammering.

_**Holmes**_

I shifted back a little, eyeing her curiously. I didn't know what to do. I wanted to kiss her again, but somehow here in Baker Street, the whole thing seemed far more real, rather than our previous panicked relief upon finding the other was still alive. I didn't know if she still felt the same way – though the theory that she did was certainly borne out by her elevated heart rate.

And also, just to add to my dilemma, I wasn't sure about the entire not-permitted-before-marriage inconvenience. I was like a small child playing a game, cautious about breaking the rules, and yet unaware exactly what the rules were. Social niceties had never been my strong point, and when the persona you presented to the outside world was an arrogant genius, people tended not to question your knowledge of such matters. I clearly recalled a case in which I had identified the killer after just one glance at the crime scene, and Lestrade had duly realised the motive as I had rushed through my hurried deduction – the scandal that the wife of the murdered man had been so anxious to prevent. Of course, he little guessed that nothing was further from my mind than a widow's fear that the neighbours might realise her husband's past indiscretions, but I prided myself on my skills in bluffing my way out of a situation.

The matter was also complicated by the fact that I had no real knowledge of the consequences should we break the rules – then again, I supposed it depended upon who discovered us breaking them. We would have to be careful.

I decided on a chaste kiss to the lips, and Anne seemed perfectly willing to go along with that. Her lips were soft and fragrant – I could identify a flowery scent that made my head spin. She laughed quietly and we broke apart, though we stayed close together, our foreheads just touching, her sparkling blue eyes fixed on mine.

"Do you think this will work?" I asked quietly, trying to ignore the tingling compulsion that had seized me to touch her cheek.

"I do not know," she replied honestly. "But I would like to try, all the same."

I smiled at that, and unwillingly, we parted and rose to our feet. It was late – although I did not enjoy sleeping myself, I could appreciate that Anne needed to do so to avoid exhaustion.

"Good night," I said quietly, as she stood at the bottom of the flight of the stairs that led to her room.

"Good night, Sherlock."

I couldn't resist – the use of my first name was too much. I kissed her one final time, stupidly preoccupied with the fact that I would not see her until the morning. Although I knew it was illogical (it was mere hours, for heaven's sake), I couldn't help thinking that it was far too long a time to stay apart. I wondered if I were going mad until I saw the very emotions I felt reflected in Anne's face. I smiled and we parted again, though I continued to hold her hand until the distance between us as I headed for my room became so great that I had to relinquish my hold.

"See you in the morning." Somehow, my voice sounded broken.

"Good night," she repeated softly, and then she was gone from sight. I went to my room and flung myself on to the bed. Strangely, I felt no wish to mull over everything that had happened that day (the memories were too painful, on the whole) but instead, to my astonishment, I found myself falling asleep, the perfection of Anne's face imprinted upon my mind.

_**Anne**_

The rush of emotion that had engulfed me as Holmes and I had parted at the foot of the stairs was quite unexpected, and I flushed to think of the sinful, fevered thoughts that had invaded my brain.

I wondered if maybe Holmes and I would one day not need to part at the foot of the stairs.

xxx

_Four weeks later_

_**Anne**_

I sneezed again, and sniffed dismally. Loath as I was to agree with Holmes on such a subject, I was beginning to think that maybe he had been wise to forbid me from accompanying him to Devon. It was pouring with rain; a storm was drawing in and the night was dark. He and Gregson had left earlier in the afternoon on a case – that of the Orlingbury jewel thieves – and hoped to apprehend the gang in one of their boltholes near Axminster. And after I had nearly wrecked one of Holmes' most delicate experiments with a misplaced sneeze that morning, he had firmly insisted that I remain behind.

Judging by the quantity of rain now hammering against the windowpanes, I was starting to appreciate the fact that I was not at this moment crouched in a cold ditch in the Devonshire countryside opposite a boarding house.

Checking the clock, I reasoned that Holmes should hopefully be back before midnight. The fire was roaring, and I was quite prepared to wait up for him – to insist that he ate something and got some rest, at the very least.

Life in Baker Street had settled into a new form of normality, and I did not find it unpleasant in the slightest. Being greeted at the breakfast table every morning with a kiss on the check was quite a novel experience, for Holmes as much as I, I suspected. Of course, we had to keep our distance during the day, but whenever we escaped our clients or the Scotland Yarders, Holmes was quite willing to be tutored in cuddling on the sofa. It was a practice I suspected that he would originally have denied ever enjoying, but it seemed he liked the sharing of body heat as much as I did, and as February slowly passed into March, it brought with it foul weather and dark, cold nights, in which even Holmes agreed that it would be madness to abandon the warmth of the fireside for the darkness of the London streets.

There was only thing bothering me in this apparently idyllic existence (and it was idyllic, for despite Holmes' many eccentricities, slowly breaking through that cold shell and catching glimpses of the beautiful, gentle man within was so rewarding that it made me wish that I need never leave his side) and that was the subject of marriage. I did not know how much Holmes was aware of the practicalities surrounding the topic, and was beginning to begrudge every moment I missed without his hand in mine just because to be seen behaving in such a way together would cause scandal.

How many times had I wished fervently to wrap my arms about him when he was frustrated with a case, wanted to kiss him when he looked so adorably puzzled by our client's woes, longed for him to sweep me into his arms when he was dazzling with triumph after solving a mystery?

I wanted to no longer have to be secretive – I wanted to be able to share his name, and (though the thought caused me to blush) his bed.

I knew, I _knew_, that I loved him, but I was worried that he did not feel the same way – maybe that was why he avoided the issue of marriage?

I sighed and rubbed my forehead in perplexity. I was overanalysing everything, as usual. It was one of Holmes' less desirable qualities that had rubbed off on me during our time together.

There was a knock at the door.

"Come in," I said wearily, knowing it couldn't be Holmes back already. Anyway, he would certainly not have bothered knocking.

Lily opened the door. Poor girl, she looked as vacant as ever.

"There's a gentlemen here to see you, Miss Chantrey. Shall I show 'im up?"

"By all means."

I heard Lily trotting back down the seventeen steps like a nonchalant pony, and found myself wondering who my mysterious visitor could be. It was extremely unlikely to be a client at this hour.

A horrible cold feeling settled in the pit of my stomach. Dear _God_ – what if Holmes had been hurt during the case? The gang were hardly known for their good manners and social etiquette. What if he was injured, and Gregson or one of the other Scotland Yarders was coming to inform me?

What if he was…?

Oh, dear God in Heaven, no.

Please, no.

What would I do?

How could I _exist_?

I felt as if someone was clutching at my throat. My breath came in painful gasps, and I fought the rush of panic threatening to engulf me, clutching the side of the chair, and attempting to look calm for whomever was about to open the door…

I swallowed hard, and the door opened.

"Um… Mr. Holmes... Your brother is away, I'm afraid – he's in Devon, on a case... I could take a message for him..."

"I know he's away," Mycroft stated comfortably. "It was you I came to speak to."

"Oh!" I said stupidly. "Well... um... come in... Please, take a seat... Would you like tea?"

Mycroft looked disgusted at the very idea. "No thank you." He had taken the armchair by the fire that I normally occupied, which left me sitting Holmes' chair. I had no objection whatsoever – the fabric retained a little of his warm, reassuring smell, and I could see the slight wear in the arm when he rested his elbow when scraping away at the violin. I sank into the cushions, wondering what in Heaven's name Mycroft could want.

"I came here," Mycroft said, a little haughtily. "To see how Sherlock's recovery was progressing, but as I see that the two of you are clearly in a relationship (albeit an unconventional one), I realise that he is probably in good health – though I would stoke the fire, as he will be undoubtedly very cold and wet when he returns."

I closed my open mouth, which had fallen open at the words "clearly in a relationship".

"His recovery?" I questioned weakly.

Mycroft gave an impatient flick of his hand. "Indeed. I have been keeping an eye on him ever since Dr. Watson died. I judged that his mental state might be unstable (and my fears were certainly not unfounded) and so wished to investigate how he was acclimatising after his loss."

I marvelled at the care for his younger brother that must surely be hidden behind the emotionless words. I pondered what a strange, sad family they were, imagined the teenage Mycroft having to 'abandon' his younger sibling upon his departure to boarding school, the younger sibling who had suffered so terribly without his being able to prevent it. I imagined the guilt behind that arrogant facade, and mourned for the childhood the two of them had lost.

"Well, he certainly is in good health," I murmured weakly.

"And your relationship is progressing well?" he questioned politely.

"I think you misunderstand..." I began.

He raised his eyebrows. "Miss Chantrey, I assure you that I am quite aware that you and my brother are romantically attached."

He steepled his fingers, and I smiled despite myself in recognition of the characteristic gesture of Sherlock's. "Firstly, your left wrist."

I glanced at it, nonplussed.

"May I?" he asked, taking it, and examining it minutely, before nodding in confirmation of his earlier thoughts. "It is as I thought. You have sustained a very slight chemical burn, possibly due to the handling of a strong acid – no doubt due to you assisting in one of Sherlock's experiments."

"What of it?"

"Firstly, Sherlock is most meticulous about his chemical studies. He must trust you a great deal to allow you to assist him, though that in itself is in no way conclusive. What is more informative, however, is the small wisp of white gauze adhering to the cuff of your jacket."

I looked down, brushing it from my sleeve self-consciously. "But what...?"

"Clearly," Mycroft interrupted. "That gauze is from some sort of dressing that has been applied to the burn. The point, however, is not just the existence of the dressing (which you might indeed have applied yourself), but more the fact that it has been removed, leaving behind the fragment of gauze. Why should you apply a dressing only to remove it mere hours later (judging from the appearance of the burn)? You are a practical and knowledgeable woman in the field of such medical aid, and would know that such an injury would not benefit greatly from the application of a dressing, hence your later removal of it. But why put it on the first place?"

I shrugged, not even bothering to ask how he knew that I was a "practical and knowledgeable woman in the field of such medical aid".

"The answer is simple. You did not do so. Who, then, did? Your landlady and your irksome maid are both vague possibilities, but these I may discount. Leaving me with the inevitable conclusion that it was Sherlock who did so. He is in no way known for his caring qualities and therefore he must care most deeply for you to feel such guilt for your injury that he would attempt to help you in a way that you must have assured him was entirely unnecessary."

I said nothing, feeling rather dwarfed by this man's towering intellect.

"That you also care greatly for him was evident by your face as you opened the door. It was quite as white as a sheet of paper. I think it a not unreasonable assumption that you presumed that he had been somehow injured in the course of his investigation, hence your fear that your visitor had come to notify you of some terrible misfortune that had befallen him. My apologies, but I believe your expression communicated concern beyond that which two fellow colleagues would have for each other."

I opened my mouth, but it seemed he had not finished.

"And last but by no means least, whatever my brother is working on over there…" Mycroft waved a dismissive hand in the direction of Holmes' scribbled pages of composition, which he had been perfecting on the violin for the past week. "It is not in his usual style." He hummed a little of the delicate melody. "Far too… _happy_. Hence something else has been distracting from his typical melancholic moods, and I believe that you are the prime suspect."

He eyed me closely, half-wary and half-amused.

I let out a shaky laugh.

"Not to mention the expression on your face when you sat in his chair," he added. "You were reassured by…"

I felt like burying my face in my hands. Dear God. I wished I had never asked the question.

When he had finished, I managed a weak smile. "I think you have rather proved your point, Mr. Holmes. But I must ask you..."

"I have already explained the purpose of my visit, Miss Chantrey," he said patiently. "I am glad my brother and yourself are getting along so well – in fact, I think you are a very good match for each other. And I am afraid I must leave you, for..." He checked an ostentatious gold pocket watch. "I have thirteen minutes to return to Whitehall – Lord Wilcox is having yet another very unpleasant altercation with the Swiss Ambassador, and I must be sure they do not come to blows this time – the paperwork is quite a nightmare."

He stood, and I did so too, quite bewildered. "You must trust that Fortune will guide you well, Miss Chantrey," he said gently. "And don't worry too much about the marriage business – Sherlock will sort himself out shortly, I should think."

I had no intention of asking him how he knew _that_, and instead chose to nod and smile vaguely.

"I am quite sure we will meet again, Miss Chantrey – it has been a pleasure – and do remember to stoke the fire, since the combination of the foul conditions outside and Sherlock's abominable disregard for his own safety may prove a potentially fatal one."

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes – good luck with… erm… the Swiss Ambassador…"

He nodded solemnly. "Thank you very much. I'm sure the matter will be resolved satisfactorily without the use of gratuitous violence."

He nodded graciously to me one last time, and then left, leaving me feeling almost as flustered as I would be if Sherlock emerged from my dresser and presented me with an engagement ring.

I sighed in despair, and went to stoke the fire.

_**Holmes**_

Interesting. Very interesting.

I observed my shaking hands. They were not their customary pale colour, but rather the tips were an odd shade of yellow-white and my palms were tinged with blue-purple.

Gregson and I had left London approximately eight hours previously for Axminster, but had not yet reached our destination when a very excitable local policeman brought word to us that the gang had become spooked and fled their hideout. Hence begun a mad chase of the fugitives across open moorland for more than two hours. Half-blinded by driving rain but spurred on by the hope of success, myself, Gregson, four Scotland-Yarders and half a dozen of the local constabulary had formulated a daring plan of ambush, which unfortunately involved very little opportunity for sitting and drying and warming oneself. Scaring them into flight, we had had several hours of desperate, jolting cab rides on inconceivably rutted tracks in pursuit of the gang, where I was forced to jump out every time we reached a turning to identify the correct wheel marks of our quarries in the puddles of mud.

We finally cornered them only two miles from Albert Dock. The scrap that followed was brief but eventful nonetheless, leaving one of the local men with a gunshot wound to the leg (not bad enough to be life-threatening, but the scar would certainly make a good story in the nearest public house). I was mercifully unharmed, but after the burst of activity I found myself wedged in a cab on the way back to London, soaked to the skin and shaking like a leaf, with merely the knowledge that we had brought a dangerous gang to justice and the prospect of seeing Anne once again to keep my spirits up.

I examined my hands again, but found my chattering teeth a distraction. My very soul seemed chilled, and dismal puddles of muddied water dripped from my wretched coat tails.

The cab reached its destination and I stepped out, my hands shaking so much that I dropped the coins I had ready to give to the cabby, but he seemed to sense that I was in no state to be hunting around in the rushing streams that the gutters now contained.

"Don't worry 'bout it, mister, 'twas you what saved me brother from the gallows," he murmured dismissively, and before I knew it the cab had trundled off, leaving me swaying and a little nonplussed by the roadside. Odd, that I did not remember the man's face – even if I had only worked with his brother, I could normally identify a family resemblance, and in the past it had been crucial in many cases, not least in Anne's. But my mind seemed to be a little fuzzy.

Maybe it had something to do with the fact that I was so cold that I could have sworn my hands were now made from ice.

I might have to write a monograph on the subject – the effect of cold upon one's mental faculties. That was assuming that my hands would ever thaw enough to allow me to hold a pen.

Somehow I staggered to the door and made to unlock it, though by now I was shivering so uncontrollably that it was quite a difficult task. My hands fumbled helplessly for several minutes until I managed it, whereupon I stumbled inside with a groan of relief, vaguely aware that I was trailing a mess of mud and water through the doorway.

Now, seventeen steps.

Seventeen steps between Anne and myself.

How hard could it be?

What seemed like an eternity later, I reached the top of the stairs and acknowledged that it was extremely hard indeed.

Anne, bless her soul, must have heard my near-drunken staggering, and the door opened a fraction, one blue eye shrouded in darkness peeping through suspiciously. When she saw, she flung open the door instantly.

"Sherlock! Dear God – in, _now_!"

She pulled me into the heavenly warmth of the room and rushed me over to the sofa. Clearly I looked something of a state.

"Clothes. Off. Now."

I frowned, certain I had misheard her. "What did you say?" I managed to stutter.

"Take your clothes off! They are quite soaking, and only cooling you down more!"

I blinked in shock. "I can assure you, Anne…"

She swooped down and kissed me swiftly on the lips, making me start in surprise. It was a few seconds later (good heavens, maybe my brain _was_ shutting down) that I realised that it had been a ruse in order to allow her to strip off my coat and jacket.

"Anne!" I scolded accusingly. "Please, remain calm! There is absolutely nothing wrong with me, and this forcible removal of…"

I was mid-way through the sentence as she wrenched off my waistcoat.

"Please desist in this – most improper… unnecessary…"

She fixed with a look that could have caused lesser men to fall dead.

Luckily, I do not count myself as a lesser man.

"Sherlock Holmes," she said in the Voice, against which there was no argument. "I am attempting to prevent your untimely demise from hypothermia, which I wish to avoid at all costs, even at the expense of your temporary embarrassment."

"But…"

Off came my cravat, and then, to my utter mortification, my shirt also. However, I was allowed to keep my trousers, and a moment later, I was able to hide my scrawny and decidedly unsightly chest with a blanket that Anne threw in my direction. A few moments later, I found myself completely swathed in the things, both decidedly uncomfortable and also blissfully aware of the sensation of the feeling gradually returning to my fingers and toes. I realised that Anne must also have removed my shoes, just as she pressed a steaming cup of tea into my hand.

"Drink," she said severely, throwing my shirt over a frame that had been set before the fire to dry.

I took a sip and choked.

"By God, Anne, how much sugar have you _put _in here?"

I glared at her suspiciously. She knew full well that I always had my tea completely black and without sugar.

"It's for shock," she said sternly. "And you _will _drink it."

I sighed dramatically, smothering another shiver, though of course Anne noticed it. She sighed in despair and flung herself down on the sofa beside me, wrapping her arms about me. I shifted one of the blanket layers slightly so it covered her too, and we sat snuggled there for some time, bound together by some extraordinary intimacy that I had never known before. Whether it was due to the six blankets I was awkwardly swaddled in, or Anne's presence, I felt the ice in my heart slowly begin to melt.

My eyes were drifting closed, when I heard Anne murmur sleepily, "I take it you caught them, then?"

"Mmm. All six."

"Good." She shifted her body so her nose was brushing my cheek. She kissed my temple gently.

"Sorry," I murmured softly. "I should have thought."

She laughed softly; I felt her soft breath on my cheek. "Sherlock Holmes - apologising? Will wonders never cease?"

I laughed too. For some reason, the name Sherlock became more tolerable when she said it. As a child, I had utterly loathed it, hated the way it had echoed through the house when my father yelled in a drunken rage. But when Anne said it, a soft glow flickered in my chest. I kissed her back softly.

"Mycroft came to visit."

I wasn't entirely too tired to be a little surprised. "Mycroft? What did he want?"

"I think he was planning on bullying me into a relationship with you," Anne replied contemplatively. "But of course he deduced that we were already... together, within above ten seconds, so there wasn't really much else."

I snorted. "Mycroft – poking his nose into my affairs yet _again_."

"He's only concerned for you," she argued, and I sighed.

"I suppose. But really, it is quite unnecessary."

"He cares about you. Like I do."

She kissed me on the nose, and I laughed and repeated the gesture. I felt like a small child, willing to trust, to accept affection for what it was, rather than as a manipulative tool. I was quite warm now, so, despite Anne's protests, I sat up (still clutching the blankets protectively to my chest) and fetched my damp shirt from in front of the fire, pulling it on. Now I felt marginally more civilised, I felt that the best course of action would be to sit beside Anne on the sofa once more, except that this time we were both completely enveloped in the blankets.

She leaned back against my chest, so her head rested on my shoulder. I ran

my hand tentatively through her hair, and she sighed. I murmured an apology, and moved my hand away.

She laughed slightly, turning her head so her liquid eyes met mine. "I like it. Do it again." I did so, and she closed her eyes, relaxing into the touch. She looked so beautiful, her porcelain skin faintly flushed from the warmth of the blankets. I felt so privileged to be able to hold her in my arms, so lucky that she cared for me.

I kissed her forehead. "Is this socially acceptable?" I teased gently.

"Only if one of us is suffering from hypothermia, unfortunately," she murmured.

I sighed. "It's a great shame. It's very pleasant."

She laughed, and I could feel it through my chest. "I'm glad your opinions match mine." I bent my head to kiss her again, and she complied, not opening her eyes, a smile curving her lips.

"I should go up to bed," she said, though she did not sound convinced.

"Should you not stay with me, in case I should suffer some form of relapse?" I asked hopefully.

She laughed again. "You are really are incredibly devious, Sherlock Holmes."

For the first time in years, I was happy to abandon thoughts and reasoning and deductions and surrender my senses to the blissful oblivion of sleep. I knew that no nightmares could strike me here with Anne in my arms, knew that she would be my talisman against that insidious and terrible fear that crept into my mind when it was vulnerable, knew that for this moment, I was utterly and completely at peace.

_**Lestrade**_

I checked my pocket watch as the cab rattled to its destination – half past seven in the morning. Not terribly early, by most standards, but I knew from Gregson that Holmes had not returned to Baker Street before midnight after the events of the night before. On the other hand, I was sure that Holmes would be glad of a new case to keep him occupied, since after finishing a particularly exciting investigation, he was prone to his infamous 'black moods'.

The cab drew up outside 221B and I leapt out, paying the cabbie. The disappearance of a Swedish aristocrat might have seemed an unusual reason for my visit, but since he had vanished during a visit to London, it was my responsibility to lead the investigation to track him down, and we currently were struggling even to establish when he had been kidnapped or had escaped the custody of his bodyguards of his own free will.

I was admitted into the house by a fairly nondescript maid and told to go up myself. I gave a cursory rap on the door to Holmes' study, and opened it.

"Good God!"

Holmes and Miss Chantrey were sitting together on the sofa, which in itself wasn't particularly scandalous, except for the fact that not only was Holmes wearing only a shirt and trousers, but they were in a most... compromising position…

I stood for a moment in utter shock, and Miss Chantrey sensed my presence, drawing back from Holmes a little to murmur something to him. He gave me a swift glance, and smiled. "Excuse me a moment, Lestrade, I shall be with you shortly."

Despite Miss Chantrey's murmured (and, I suspected, judging by her wide smile, completely insincere) protests, he bent to kiss her on the lips again before rising from the sofa in a shamefully reluctant manner, seemingly irritated at the interruption. Miss Chantrey smiled disarmingly at me before fleeing upstairs to her own room.

Holmes waved an eloquent hand, inviting me in, and sat down at his desk, arms flung behind his head in a lazy stretch. He stared out of the window, observing what seemed to be a small fight in the street below between three bakers, two cabbies, and half a dozen street children.

I sat down opposite him, still completely stunned.

"Judging from the fact that you are here unusually early in the morning and appear rather agitated, I presume that you are not merely coming to congratulate me on the rather excellent results of last night."

Noting my lack of response, he turned, looking a little puzzled. "Well?"

"Holmes… In God's name…"

A smile flickered across that pale, intelligent face.

I was trying to remember the last time I had seen Holmes smile properly when I suddenly realised how much more _alive _he looked.

"I take it that you are surprised?"

"Well… I am a little… taken aback… certainly… Not that I hadn't considered it might be a possibility… Seeing you together before… You seemed very… well…"

He laughed then, throwing his head back, eyes flashing with mirth.

"I suppose you considered me to be only a machine, then?"

"No… of course not… It just caught be by surprise… And, I mean – on the sofa… Anyone could have walked in, Holmes…"

"We were only _kissing_, Lestrade," he retorted, sounding almost smug.

I flushed. "Yes, Holmes, but it's not really…"

"Socially acceptable?" he drawled, reaching for a cigarette.

He was most definitely smug.

"Well… There's no denying she's a very nice young lady… And I am very happy for you – you're very well suited, for one thing – but…"

I coughed awkwardly. "But… well… You've got to be discreet about these things – you're not married, and… Well…"

For the first time, a little flash of doubt crossed Holmes' face. "Ah… yes…" He looked vaguely discomfited. "How does one… erm…?"

"Generally you ask her if she'll marry you," I said, nonplussed.

Holmes looked stricken. "What if she says no?"

I fought to keep a straight face at the bizarreness of the conversation.

"I don't think she will, Holmes."

I was startled by the sudden fear in his eyes. "How can you know that?"

"Well… because… I just…"

I scrabbled uselessly for suitable words. "Believe me, Holmes…"

Frantic hands clutched at my wrists. "But if she doesn't… I mean… If she left… I don't know what I'd do…"

"So you are going to carry on like this indefinitely, are you?" I challenged. "Hiding? Keeping it secret? Do you think she'd prefer that? You've got to bite the bullet, as it were. She cares about you – and you care about her. It doesn't matter that you're older, or what anyone will think."

I paused, a little embarrassed at talking to Holmes like this. The concept of _me_ giving advice to _him_ was completely alien, for a start.

"I really am happy for you, you know," I said bluntly. "After… Watson died… I was worried about you. We all were."

Holmes became even more interested in the fight outside the window.

"I think you've got a chance," I said seriously. "Don't waste it, Holmes. She deserves more than all this deception."

The silver eyes darted to me for a tiny second – the only acknowledgement I received of my words. Then he took another drag on his cigarette, and smiled resignedly again.

"Tell me about this case, then."

I gave him a single meaningful look, and then took out my pocketbook.

_**Anne**_

When I returned downstairs, Lestrade had gone, and Sherlock was wearing his coat, waiting impatiently by the door. I smiled at the sight of him. I couldn't quite rid my mind of the memory of him shirtless on the sofa, showing his beautifully pale and muscular torso. And he also looked rather preoccupied - apparently the case Lestrade had given him was an interesting one.

"Ready?" he asked.

"Of course. What's happening?"

"A Swedish aristocrat has disappeared in central London. Scotland Yard are completely flummoxed, as per usual." His eyes glinted.

"And Lestrade wasn't massively offended by…? Well…"

Sherlock looked suddenly thoughtful. "No, he wasn't." He hesitated, and took a large breath. "Listen, Anne, I was thinking…"

He looked straight at me for a moment, and then glanced away again. "We should get going. Cab's waiting."

I followed him at top speed down the stairs.

**Author's Note**

Sorry it's been so long

Again.

Truth is, real life has become so awkward that even fanfiction must suffer Have been having panic attacks at school (very unpleasant and horrid), and neglected to tell my parents for three weeks – hence when the school nurse decided to phone them, much irritating stress resulted. Dad is moving house, Mum is crying daily due to stupid builders, and homework levels are becoming insane. Thankfully writing this has cheered me up slightly, as has haunting the BBC Sherlock fanfiction section

So… Not sure exactly where this is headed, but quite possibly the next chapter will be my last, in which loose ends and happy-cheesy-endings will be sorted out! Partly because I want to finish it off before my plot becomes even more thin and straggly, and partly because then it will be 20 chapters, which seems remarkably neat to me Was actually reasonably pleased with this one, what with hypothermic!Holmes and Mycroft's endless prattling deductions – hope it was OK!

And, thank you as usual (except ten times more) for the reviews, which have never failed to bring a smile to my face:

Carlypso – glad you liked – thinking back killing them off would just have been tooooo evil

TimeGhost823 – hope the direction it went was OK, and fingers crossed the cliffhanger last time wasn't too annoying!

mstef – more happiness in this one too

Jamberine – yeah sorry for the break

Raptured Night – oh how lovely your reviews are! What more is there to say? Enjoy!

Lulu-fifi – indeed teachers are terrible What is even more annoying is when you hand in homework and they don't mark it for weeks because "they were busy". Apparently we didn't qualify as busy enough not to do the homework in the first place, though! Sorry for rant You inspired me for the little Lestrade-ness here – hope it was OK!

bakerstreetirregular – thank youuuuuu – cool name by the way

Catherine Spark – What did I do to deserve you? Thanks so much for MULTIPLE REVIEWS (eee!) When I saw the words "insanely well-written" I nearly shrieked with joy – thank you! Unfortunately, the incorrect naming of Milverton's housemaid was not intentional (MUST re-read books again ASAP) so must figure out how to alter that

movieexpert1978 – ha! I feel your pain! Hope you enjoyed the less conflict/ more kissing balance in this one And good luck with the textbooks!

Zofos – honestly you nearly made me cry! Hope you enjoyed this chapter and sorry it was so long in coming :P Thank you so much, and your English is fantastic – had no idea it wasn't your first language until I read the last sentence! Truly you really cheered me up on a bad day, and I really really appreciate it!

So thank you, all you guys, and hope you haven't forgotten me during this long interlude (silently pleading for reviews I know I don't deserve considering terrible hiatus). Hope you enjoyed, and wish me luck for next chapter! x


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